THE   GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 


THE  GENIUS  OF 

ELIZABETH  ANNE 


BY 


MABEL  HOTCHKISS  ROBBINS 


THE   PILGRIM    PRESS 

BOSTON         NEW  YORK      CHICAGO 


COPTBIOHT    1916 

BY  MABEL  HOTCHKISS  ROBBINS 


THE    PILGRIM  PRESS 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  **«* 

I  WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 3 

II  THE  TALE  OF  A  CHRISTENING     ...       25 

III  THE  SHADOWS  ON  THE  WALK     .  .       45 

IV  ADVENTURES  OF  A  "  GENIUS  "     .        .        .59 
V  ADVENTURES  AT  SCHOOL  AND  ELSEWHERE     .       83 

VI  LIGHTS   AND   SHADOWS         ....       91 

VII  TROUBLES  MULTIPLY  FOR  OUR  HEROINE         .     109 

VIII  ELIZABETH  RECEIVES  "A  NINVITATION"      .     125 

IX  OUR  HEROINE  is  "  TAKEN  IN  "     .         .         .     141 

X  ELIZABETH  DONS  "  SASSIETY  TOGS  "     .         .155 

XI  ELIZABETH  WRITES  FOR  THE  "  SUN  "     .        .169 

XII  ELIZABETH  BASKS  IN  FAME'S  LIGHT     .         .181 

XIII  A  SHADOW  OF  TRAGEDY        .         .         .         .189 

XIV  "  A  COAL  OF  THE  INFERNO  "...     205 
XV  Miss  DRURY'S  ROMANCE      ....     215 

XVI  JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT  .         .     233 

XVII  "  HONORABLE  MENTION  "  259 

XVIII  LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM         .        .  .        .281 

XIX  THE  MOUNT  OF  VISION  309 


2229051 


WHAT'S    IN   A   NAME? 


WHAT'S    IN   A   NAME? 

"Thar  mus'  be  somethin'  awful  chillin'  'bout 
that  thar  firs'  yell  they  give,"  said  Marthy 
Prouty  awesomely,  hovering  over  the  chip  fire 
in  the  kitchen  stove.  "I  hain't  never  heerd  it 
no  more'n  twicet  in  my  life,  an'  both  times, 
though  'twas  a  fur  throw  from  bein'  chilly,  I 
felt  like  'twar  cold  enough  t'  freeze  the  har 
off' n  a  dog." 

"Gimme  that  sarcer  o'  lard,"  responded 
Mrs.  O'Hara,  noncommittally,  indicating  with 
her  head,  since  both  of  her  hands  were  occu- 
pied, "an'  thin  whin  ye've  hunted  me  up  a  bit 
o'  cloth  fer  bundling  it  in,  ye  kin  go  on  back 
t'  bed.  Ye'r  more  throuble'n  y'er  worth,  anny- 
how,"  she  added  amiably. 

Marthy,  who  never  absorbed  a  complete 
idea  with  any  degree  of  alacrity,  lifted  the 
saucer  from  the  back  of  the  stove  with  slovenly 
disregard  for  her  nightgown  sleeves,  and  stood 

[3] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

staring  dumbly  while  the  older  woman  per- 
formed feats  that  would  have  raised  the  hair 
of  a  trained  nurse. 

Mrs.  O'Hara,  it  happened,  was  not  a 
trained  nurse.  It  is  doubtful  if  she  had  ever 
heard  of  the  genus.  More,  Modern  Science 
as  concerns  the  child,  would  have  passed 
serenely  over  her  head.  But  she  had  "had 
ten  of  her  own,"  which  was  ample  qualification 
in  Cull  Prairie. 

"Guess  I  will,"  said  Marthy,  upon  whom 
the  final  injunction  had  begun  to  dawn — "go 
on  back  t'  bed,  I  mean.  They  got  me  out  'fore 
the  crows  gaped,  s'  help  me!  Beats  all,  how 
flighty  folks  is  with  their  first,  don't  it?  An' 
the  younger  they  be  the  scar'der  they  git. 
(She's  no  more'n  twenty-one,  las'  birthday,  I 
hear.)  Workin'  out,  a  body's  got  t'  be  glad 
o'  the  little  critters,  though.  I  expect  I'd  never 
git  a  job  'thout  'em." 

She  yawned  profoundly,  making  of  her 
mouth  a  capacious  red  cavern.  Everything 
about  Marthy  was  big  and  red,  from  her 
round,  artless  face  to  the  voluminous  flannel 
petticoat  which  she  had  hastily  slipped  on 


WHAT'S    IN   A   NAME 

over  her  nightgown,  and  which  she  held  help- 
lessly clutched  at  either  side,  in  her  thick,  raw- 
looking  fingers.  In  the  course  of  her  progress 
to  the  attic  stairway,  she  stopped  short,  and 
peeped  fearfully  into  the  chamber  of  mys- 
teries. It  was  so  still,  it  sent  her  heart  into 
her  mouth,  but  a  slight  agitation  of  the  thin 
spread  with  the  weak  movement  of  a  pair  of 
round,  pale,  freckled  girlish  arms  on  the  bed 
reassured  her. 

"Glory!"  she  observed  absently  aloud,  "they 
look  like  they  hadn't  hardly  no  more'n  lost 
their  grip  on  some  pink  an'  grinnin'  doll- 
critter!" 

Half  way  up  the  stairs,  she  paused  again. 
(Marthy  always  paused  with  an  idea.) 
"Glory,"  she  reiterated  dully,  "s*  help  me, 
they  do!" 

The  newly-made  mother  seemed  to  have 
heard  the  words,  for  her  rigid  lips  relaxed 
smilingly.  Her  crucifixion  achieved,  the  dread, 
set-lipped,  pain-wrung  hours  ticked  off,  she 
lay  lapped  in  infinite  weakness  and  peace,  only 
folding  her  hands  at  intervals,  by  a  habit  of 
months,  to  pray  that  the  baby  might  be 

[5] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

healthy  and  strong — yes,  and  beautiful,  she 
added  definitely.  By  beautiful  she  meant  ex- 
quisitely formed  and  soft-hued  and  dainty  as 
a  rose.  She  asked  boldly.  When  one  has 
lately  reached  down  to  the  dim  and  doubtful 
borders  of  the  Shadow  Valley  to  kindle  a  tiny 
life-flame  in  the  dark,  one  is  justified  perhaps 
in  certain  prayers.  But  they  sap  one's  strength 
for  all  that.  The  mother  of  the  chief  mystery 
had  just  folded  her  hands  for  the  third  time, 
when  the  weakness  had  blotted  out  the  prayer, 
and  left  her  with  only  a  brief,  unaccounted- 
for  space  in  her  memory,  the  first  sapping  of 
her  consciousness  by  illness  in  all  her  strong 
young  life. 

When  next  she  began  to  take  account  of 
things,  the  room's  two  paper  shades  were  flap- 
ping against  the  window  casings  with  the  lap- 
ping sound  of  soft,  hungry  tongues,  each  little 
puff  of  wind  that  crossed  the  sills  tangy  with 
mignonette — mignonette  that  she  suddenly 
remembered  planting  in  a  very  careful  and 
very  amateurish  plat  about  the  kitchen-garden 
in  a  time  that,  in  the  face  of  this  new  and 
really  important  epoch,  seemed  somehow  very 

[6] 


WHAT'S    IN    A   NAME 

trivial,  and  very  far  away;  a  circle  of  giddy 
white  moths  fluttered  about  the  deep-yellow 
flower  of  the  still  dimly  burning  night-lamp; 
a  sleepy  sparrow  just  outside  began  a  note, 
persistent,  naive,  questioning;  the  inner  air 
was  redolent  of  something  keen  and  medicinal, 
and  from  the  sitting-room  beyond  came  the 
subdued  sound  of  Mrs.  O'Hara's  voice  and 
another. 

She  dozed  then,  in  snatches,  dreamfully, 
and  was  not  entirely  sure  of  any  sensation, 
save  that  after  a  blurred  and  confused  interval 
that  might  have  been  hours  or  only  moments, 
there  was  a  very  consciously  suppressed  foot- 
fall on  the  bare  floor,  and  a  wee  body,  a  very 
miracle  in  its  littleness,  was  laid  beside  her, 
the  velvety  wrinkles  of  the  folded  neck  brush- 
ing her  forearm  with  the  creepy  feeling  of  a 
sheathed  paw. 

"  'Tis  a  gur-rl,  darlint,  th'  saints  aise  ye," 
said  Mrs.  O'Hara,  hastily  and  puffily. 

Next  door,  her  own  brood,  early  awakened, 
clamored  for  their  breakfasts  with  clamorings 
that  were  beginning  to  make  themselves  heard 
throughout  the  neighborhood. 

[7] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

"Shure,"  she  went  on,  "an'  if  ye  do  be  nadin' 
me  agin'  ye  hov  but  t'  sind." 

She  wiped  her  wet  forehead  in  retreat  with 
her  faded  rag  of  an  apron,  through  the  holes 
of  which  the  darker  stuff  of  her  wrapper 
showed  in  dingy  black  islands.  "An'  ramim- 
ber  if  there's  anny thing  yer  afther  wantin'- 
she  waved  her  hand  comprehensively.  Maggie 
O'Hara  never  recognized  limitations  of  any 
sort.  She  had  emerged  from  forty-odd  years 
of  biting  poverty  with  a  rotund  figure  and  a 
spirit  so  lavish  that  it  was  hard  to  remember 
that  she  had  nothing  more  substantial  than 
good-will  to  give.  In  transit,  she  glanced 
swiftly  over  her  shoulder,  and  crossed  her  sag- 
ging breast  with  a  reverent  gesture,  which  was 
her  way  of  expressing  her  appreciation  of  the 
perfection  with  which  the  tiny  head  fitted  into 
the  crotch  of  the  round  young  arm. 

There  are  women  who  don  their  mother- 
hood like  a  sightly  and  substantial  gar- 
ment made  to  their  measure,  and  others  upon 
whom  it  falls  like  the  flimsiest  and  most  illy 
proportioned  robe  of  chance.  The  girl  mother 
on  the  bed  adorned  hers;  she  was  as  much  a 

[8] 


WHAT'S    IN    A   NAME 

queen  in  it  as  if  a  royal  circlet  lay  on  her 
loosened  yellow  hair.  It  bewildered  her,  and 
filled  her  heart,  and  suffused  her  eyes,  but 
when  she  opened  her  lips  to  say  something 
perhaps  of  her  gratitude  to  Mrs.  O'Hara,  the 
wind  took  a  second  fling  at  the  window  shade 
nearest  her,  admitting  a  thin  stream  of  the 
morning  light,  and  revealing  the  real  baby  in 
contrast  to  the  prayer  baby — a  contrast  so 
strong  as  to  all  but  take  her  breath. 

In  that  moment  the  prayer  baby  disap- 
peared forever  as  in  a  mist.  The  real  baby, 
poor  little  blue-nosed  morsel,  lay  still  on  her 
back,  her  wee,  ridiculous  mouth  nuzzling  hun- 
grily, her  red,  clenched  fists  pawing  the  air 
with  ineffectual  searchings.  She  had  not  cried 
yet,  but  the  desperate  puckering  of  her 
crumpled,  indeterminate  features  betrayed 
that  she  would,  very  shortly,  unless  her  blind 
and  feeble  searchings  resulted  in  something 
tangible  and  satisfying. 

A  man  who  had  been  banished  to  outer 
darkness  during  the  ordeal,  and  who  had  since 
returned  to  the  scene  of  his  banishment  by 
awesome  degrees,  got  up  doubtfully  from  the 

[9] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

foot  of  the  bed  in  the  half  light,  and  stood  over 
mother  and  babe  with  a  look  of  silent  wonder. 
He  was  of  medium  height,  slender  build,  a 
mild  brown  as  to  hair  and  eyes;  and  stress  of 
feeling  had  washed  his  clean-shaven  olive  skin 
ghastly  clear  of  color,  but  he  gave  still  in  spite 
of  all  an  impression  of  physical  vigor,  being 
in  truth  of  a  sinewy  strength  in  every  toil- 
developed  fibre  of  him — a  strength  that  had 
seemed  only  a  miserable,  useless,  dragging 
weight  in  this  great  hour  of  paternity. 

His  wife,  her  eyes  yet  on  the  red  and 
wrinkled  scrap  of  face,  smiled  weakly,  her 
lashes  sweeping  the  whiteness  of  her  cheeks. 
The  maternal  prejudice  is  a  force  not  to  be 
lightly  reckoned  with.  "She  has  the  forehead 
of  a  genius,  David,"  she  said  confidently, 
bridging  in  a  breath  the  gap  between  the  real 
child  and  the  other.  Her  voice,  pain-hoarse, 
rasped  unnaturally,  but  there  was  no  trace 
of  recent  disappointment  in  it.  "The  height 
and  fullness,  you  know,"  she  was  finishing 
speculatively. 

David  shifted  his  position  with  a  motion  of 
acquiescence,  and  bending  down,  slipped  his 

[10] 


WHAT'S    IN    A   NAME 

hand  soothingly  over  hers  in  agreement,  but 
he  was  glad  that  she  could  not  get  a  better 
view  of  his  face  into  which  he  was  unable  to 
summon  so  much  confidence  at  a  moment's 
notice. 

They  remained  quietly  so  for  several  mo- 
ments. The  bond  between  the  two,  grippingly 
strong,  defiant  of  human  analysis,  was  yet  as 
simple,  as  instinctive  a  thing,  as  might  have 
existed  between  two  mated  and  consulting  her- 
mit thrushes. 

"I — I've  been  wondering  what  name  would 
be  best  for — for  a  genius,"  she  continued 
feebly  after  a  time,  her  hand  moving  under  his 
flutteringly  as  in  the  days  of  their  precipitate 
courtship.  "We  never  had  one  in  our  family, 
did  you?"  with  a  little  anticipatory  thrill.  .  .  . 
"Something  high-sounding.  I  thought,  per- 
haps, like  'Elizabeth.'  Not  that" — an  un- 
guarded sigh  very  nearly  betraying  her — "not 
that  it's  anything  like  what  I'd  planned.  There 
was  a  prettier  name,  for  a  girl,"  gropingly, 
"one  that  put  me  in  mind  of  a  flower  .  .  . 
'Rosamond,'  I  believe,  Rosamond  Langdon." 
She  dwelt  deliciously  on  the  words. 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

"But  why  not  'Caroline,'  for  you?"  sub- 
mitted David,  for  whom  there  was  but  one 
feminine  name  in  the  world. 

"Or,  'Sarah,'  fer  me?"  abruptly  broke  in  a 
thin,  high  voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  the 
keyhole,  as  a  dried-looking  atom  of  a  brown 
woman,  with  a  wry,  humorous  mouth,  and  a 
wisp  of  a  sun-bonnet  in  her  hand,  hopped  over 
the  sill. 

"I  got  away  the  minute  I  could,"  she  went  on 
breathlessly,  putting  a  business-like  hand  on 
David's  sleeve,  and  surveying  the  occupants 
of  the  bed  with  the  half -critical,  half-puzzled 
look  of  the  novitiate.  "Rosie  O'Hara  brought 
in  the  news,  an'  I  was  on  pins  t'  git  started. 
But  I've  got  one  ol'  'cumbrance  jus'  now,  that 
takes  more  waitin'  on  'n  a  born  cripple!  .  .  . 
How's  everything?  Doin'  well,  th'  ol'  doctor 
said,  when  I  halted  him  on  the  street.  .  .  . 
I  see  you've  got  Marthy  in  the  kitchen.  With 
a  boost  or  two,  she'll  be  better'n  nuthin'.  .  .  . 
Are  you  feelin'  very  weak,  Carrie?"  with  an 
awkward  but  not  unsympathetic  pat  of  the 
bedclothes.  "Mis'  O'Hara  seemed  t'  think 
you  needed  quiet.  She'll  look  in  again,  she 

[12] 


WHAT'S    IN    A   NAME 

says,  when  she  gets  around  to  it.  ...  But 
this,"  disjointedly,  "is  no  place  t'  stan'  talkin'. 
Git  out  o'  here,  David  Langdon,  an'  let  your 
wife  sleep." 

She  tightened  her  hold  on  his  arm,  and  led 
him  forth,  closing  the  door  after  her  with  a 
subdued  but  decisive  snap.  It  would  not  have 
occurred  to  David  to  resist  her  if  she  had  pro- 
posed leading  him  into  the  street  and  leaving 
him  there.  She  was  his  elder  sister — his  only 
living  relative,  in  fact,  so  far  as  he  knew,  and 
for  the  most  part,  she  had  guided  and  directed 
him  by  virtue  of  her  twelve  years  seniority 
from  the  days  when  he  had  sat  forlornly  on 
the  floor  in  his  motherless  babyhood,  and  she 
had  cuffed  him,  or  shoved  a  bit  of  cooky  into 
his  mouth  to  stop  his  mild  whimpering.  Her 
executive  ability  was  not  to  be  doubted.  It 
showed  itself  among  other  ways  in  her  capable 
management  of  a  flourishing  home  for  sum- 
mer guests  of  Cull  Prairie,  in  her  energetic 
turns  at  practical  nursing  in  a  neighboring 
city;  in  everything,  in  short,  to  which  she 
turned  her  hand.  She  knew  it,  too,  and  took  a 
proper  pride  in  it.  But  her  efforts  in  the  line 

[13] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

of  molding  her  brother  pleased  her  less.  Not 
that  she  was  conscious  of  any  serious  moral 
lack  in  him;  it  was  only  that  he  was  a  seer  of 
strange  and  roseate  things  that  she  had  never 
seen  nor  ever  wished  to  see.  If  only  she  could 
have  cuffed  him,  still,  in  his  moments  of  ab- 
straction, or  snatched  from  him  his  viewpoint 
in  life  as  she  had  been  wont  to  snatch  a  for- 
bidden plaything,  it  would  have  been  to  the  im- 
mense relief  of  her  feelings.  He  had  a  phi- 
losophy that  would  not  hold  water,  as  she 
never  failed  to  tell  him  upon  each  occasion  of 
their  meeting,  and  she  snapped  her  fingers  at 
his  schemes  of  world  reform  and  betterment. 
Nevertheless,  she  could  accuse  him  of  none  of 
the  idleness  which  is  the  world-old  moral 
brand  of  the  dreamer.  He  had  learned  the 
stone-mason's  trade  in  his  early  manhood, 
when  she  had  decided  that  he  had  no  further 
need  of  schooling,  and  the  excellence  of  his 
work  was  a  matter  of  comment  throughout 
the  countryside.  Unfortunately,  however,  the 
returns  of  his  labor,  while  put  to  no  bad  use, 
slipped  through  his  fingers  like  water.  At 
twenty-eight  his  prospects  were  not  in  the 
[14] 


WHAT'S    IN    A   NAME 

ascendancy.  Nor  did  the  matter  give  him  a 
moment's  uneasiness.  He  seemed  content  to 
live  on  at  the  shabby  old  Langdon  homestead 
which  had  fallen  to  his  portion  (together  with 
the  mortgage)  unmindful  of  its  rapidly  dis- 
appearing paint,  and  the  decay  of  its  thickly 
vine-clad  porches,  feeling  as  if  every  faithful 
stick  and  stone  of  it,  just  as  it  stood,  had  a 
sacred  and  inalienable  right  to  their  places. 
It  had  nettled  Sarah  more  than  once  to  the 
point  of  speaking  her  mind,  and,  while  the  old 
subject  had  been  long  exhausted,  she  was 
never  at  a  loss  for  a  fresh  issue. 

"I've  got  th'  same  ol'  bone  t'  pick  that 
always  wants  pickin'  here,"  she  began  in 
almost  the  same  instant  that  the  door  closed. 
"I  saw  your  name  at  th'  top  of  that  subscrip- 
tion list,  yesterday,  for  Mort  Peeler,  with  ten 
dollars  scrawled  after  it.  Ten  dollars!  An* 
you  with  responsibilities  aspringin'  up  around 
you  like  mushrooms!  An*  th'  intrus'  money 
af  allin'  due  nex'  week !  An*  winter  astalkin'  a 
stone's  throw  frum  th'  door,  when  you  can  sit 
an'  twiddle  yer  thumbs !  .  .  .  When  I  see  the 
management  o'  mos'  men,  it's  'n  everlastin'  joy 

[15] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

t'  me  that  I'm  single,  that's  all  I  have  t'  say, 
an'  I  s'pose  I  might  as  well  keep  m'  breath  fer 
coolin'  m'  soup,  at  that !" 

David,  who  had  been  prowling  around 
blindly  for  the  one  rocker  that  the  room  con- 
tained— a  little  stiff,  creaky,  calico-covered 
thing, — seized  upon  it  at  last  and  proffered  it 
humbly. 

"Sit  down,  Sarah,"  he  urged  courteously, 
himself  sinking  into  a  chair  at  the  window,  and 
leaning  his  elbow  with  some  deliberation  on 
the  sill,  while  he  cast  about  in  his  mind  for 
something  at  the  same  time  explanatory  and 
pacifying.  "I — it  wouldn't  do  to  start  a  thing 
like  that  with  less,  you  see.  It  sets  the  pace 
for  others.  And  Mort  is  in  pretty  bad  straits 
since  the  fire,  it  seems.  He  hadn't  a  cent  of 
insurance  on  the  place."  He  spoke  with  a 
habit  of  careful  correctness  caught  from  Caro- 
line. "But  come,"  eagerly  reverting  to  a  more 
agreeable  topic,  "you  haven't  said  what  you 
thought  of  the  baby." 

Caroline,  still  interestedly  alert,  lifted  her 
head  slightly  from  the  pillow  with  some  effort, 
and  listened  closely  for  the  first  time  for  her 

[16] 


WHAT'S    IN    A   NAME 

sister-in-law's  response.  Sarah  could  always 
be  depended  upon  to  say  what  she  thought. 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  she  sniffed,  venting  the 
remainder  of  her  spleen  in  the  digression,  "it's 
got  my  nose,  flare  an'  turn-up,  an'  it's  a  runt ! 
Marryin'  a  child,  you  couldn't  expect  no  full- 
sized  children!" 

The  listener  dropped  her  head  suddenly  and 
pressed  the  fingers  of  her  free  hand  to  her  ear 
with  deafening  effect,  consoling  herself  with 
the  thought  that  though  Sarah  invariably  left 
a  sting  in  her  wake,  there  would  be  a  warm 
dinner  for  David  because  of  her,  and  several 
needed  additions  to  the  pantry  store.  Her 
gaze  fell  again  to  the  soft  expanse  of  baby 
brow  to  which  she  pinned  her  faith.  "She 
couldn't  be  expected  to  understand,"  she  mur- 
mured as  if  in  apology  to  one  who  might  have 
felt  hurt.  Already  the  little  personality 
seemed  very  real  to  her.  "She  doesn't  under- 
stand him,  either,  and  more,  she  never  will." 

When  she  removed  her  fingers,  Sarah  was 
whispering — a  shrill,  insistent  whisper  that 
carried  even  better  than  her  ordinary  voice. 

"Does  her  mother — do  her  folks  know  any- 

[17] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

thing  about  this — the  baby?  Why  have  none 
of  them  come?"  she  was  asking  pointedly. 

Caroline,  safe  from  observation,  winced 
openly;  David,  under  fire  of  direct  gaze, 
cleared  his  throat  nervously  before  answering. 
It  was  an  exceedingly  sore  point  with  both  of 
them  that  in  their  year  of  married  life  no  one 
from  this  side  of  the  house  had  yet  set  foot  in 
the  new  home,  and  that  the  fact  was  becoming 
patent  to  other  eyes. 

"Of  course,  living  in  Brooklawn,  they  might 
not  find  it  convenient,"  he  began  apologetic- 
ally— "that  is,"  with  his  habit  of  truth,  "pro- 
vided they  knew." 

Sarah  broke  into  an  irritating  laugh. 

"Brooklawn!"  she  snorted  finally,  forgetting 
that  she  had  set  out  to  whisper.  "Ten  miles 
an'  a  half  away!  No  wonder  they  do  not 
'find  it  convenient',"  with  an  affected  mimicry 
of  her  brother's  words.  "You  talk  as  if  I 
hadn't  cut  my  eye-teeth." 

David,  at  a  loss,  rested  his  chin  in  his  hand, 
and  reflected  uncomfortably.  The  small  work- 
ings of  life,  the  insignificant  whys  and  where- 
fores of  his  neighbor's  conduct,  interested  him 

[18] 


WHAT'S    IN    A   NAME 

not  at  all  ordinarily.  Being  forced  to  take 
notice  of  them  gave  him  a  sense  of  obtrusive- 
ness  and  consequent  disquietude.  But  he 
could  not  be  entirely  blind  to  them  when  they 
crossed  his  own  path  and  touched  his  own  life. 
Sarah's  words  had  set  loose  a  flood  of  recol- 
lections that  he  could  never  find  wholly  agree- 
able. He  began  to  sort  them  over,  mentally, 
for  possible  and  presentable  phases.  To  begin 
with,  there  was  the  family  of  Stratman  from 
which  Caroline  had  come,  illy  assorted  as  if 
gathered  together  capriciously  under  one  roof- 
tree  by  the  god  of  mischance.  Then,  there 
was  his  meeting  with  them  on  business,  and 
the  work  he  had  undertaken  on  the  pretentious 
home  which  the  widowed  and  socially  ambi- 
tious Mrs.  Stratman  was  causing  to  be  erected. 
Next,  his  impetuous  wooing,  that  had  car- 
ried him  so  far  and  so  strangely  out  of  his 
usual  quiet  course.  And  last,  but  not  least — 
well  he  had  once  found  a  pitifully  bound  plant- 
ling  in  a  rocky  crevice;  if  he  had  bruised  his 
fingers  in  drawing  it  out  to  a  wider  growing 
spot,  he  was  under  no  obligation  to  exhibit  the 
bruises. 

[19] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

Sarah,  eyeing  him  sharply,  felt  confirmed 
in  certain  opinions  she  had  held  for  some  time. 
The  extreme  reticence  of  her  brother  was  a 
further  source  of  great  irritation  to  her. 

"Her  mother  ought  to  know,"  she  observed, 
recollecting  herself,  and  speaking  a  shade 
more  quietly,  though  with  no  less  vehemence. 
"There's  nothin'  in  the  world  more  senseless 
'n  a  break  in  the  blood-bond,  an'  there's  no 
woman-child  anywhere  that  ever  gets  over 
needin'  her  mother,"  a  certain  delicate  set  of 
the  lips  belieing  the  roughness  of  her  manner. 
"I've  a  notion  to  write  to  her  myself,  since 
you're  so  backward  about  it." 

David  was  on  his  feet  in  a  moment. 

"I  wouldn't,  Sarah,"  he  objected  anxiously, 
beginning  to  pace  the  floor  in  a  sudden  acces- 
sion of  nervousness.  "The  fact  is,  her — her 
eyesight  is  not — specially  good,  and  you  know 
your  handwriting  is — well,  not  common.  I 
doubt  if  she  could  read  it." 

"She  can  hire  a  lawyer,"  said  Sarah  with 
easy  unconcern,  fishing  in  her  petticoat  pocket, 
and  bringing  to  light  something  upon  which 
she  jotted  an  illegible  memorandum.  "If  she's 

[20] 


WHAT'S    IN    A   NAME 

as  grand  and  mighty  as  you  seem  to  think,  the 
fee  won't  stop  her." 

She  snapped  a  bit  of  rubber  about  the 
scribbled  pad  with  an  air  of  finality  as  she 
spoke,  and  popping  up,  with  a  little  flirt  of 
her  skirts,  strode  into  the  kitchen  without  an- 
other word,  and  put  her  surplus  feeling  into 
the  concocting  of  a  mess  so  savory  as  to  warm 
the  heart  and  water  the  mouth  of  the  big, 
hungry,  hopeless-eyed  Marthy. 

Caroline  sniffed  wistfully  in  the  faint, 
tempting  odor  that  was  wafted  even  to  her, 
and  receiving  a  tiny  bowl  of  steaming  broth 
as  her  portion,  laid  a  grateful  cheek  for  a  mo- 
ment against  the  thin,  tan-stained  hand  that 
offered  it,  and  was  surprised  to  see  the  quick 
tears  well  up  in  the  sharp  dark  eyes. 

"It'll  be — all  right,"  suddenly  intoned 
Sarah,  with  unlooked-for  understanding,  get- 
ting down  on  her  knees  and  speaking  as  to  a 
very  little  child.  "She  shall  know,  an'  of 
course  she'll  come — soon.  It'll  be — all  right 
—all  right." 


[21] 


THE  TALE  OF  A  CHRISTENING 


II 

THE  TALE  OF  A  CHRISTENING 

As  it  happened,  a  full  two  weeks  went  by 
before  the  promise  materialized — in  the  shape 
of  a  brief  note,  almost  curt,  which  simply  made 
mention  of  a  time  when  the  writer  might  be 
expected.  The  baby  thrived  and  seemed 
likely  to  thrive.  Sarah  had  got  her  patient, 
who  mended  slowly,  into  the  covered  rocker  at 
the  bedroom  window  on  the  morning  of  the 
day  that  the  note  had  named,  secretly  delight- 
ing in  the  gentle  humility  of  her,  the  childish 
tendrils  of  fair  hair  that  clung  moistly  to  her 
temples,  the  tender,  unblemished  skin,  the 
shapely  body  with  the  firm  roundness  that 
never  deserted  it,  even  in  lean  and  strenuous 
times,  the  excited  tinge  of  pink  in  the  face  that 
had  usually  only  a  sort  of  soft  pinched  white- 
ness oddly  at  variance  with  the  fuller  flesh  of 
throat  and  arms  and  breast. 

"Is  yer  mother  partial  at  all  t'  colors?"  she 
asked  brusquely,  to  cover  a  certain  shyness  at 

[25] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

the  question.  "  'Cause  I  was  thinkin'  there's 
yer  rose-color  dressin'  sacque  ahangin'  here  in 
th'  closet  when  ye  might  as  well  have  it  on." 

Caroline  bent  over  and  trailed  her  white  fin- 
gers slowly  across  the  baby's  pillow. 

"Just  look,  Sarah,"  she  murmured  dream- 
ily, after  a  vague  assent,  gazing  ponderingly 
into  the  depths  of  the  soft-fringed,  world-new 
eyes.  "What  can  she  be  thinking?  If  only  she 
could  say!" 

"H'm,"  said  Sarah  shortly,  taking  down  a 
wrapper  that  had  hung  over  the  sacque,  and 
critically  comparing  the  two,  "give  her  time. 
I  never  saw  the  gal  youngun  yet  that  didn't 
duly  reward  all  them  that  was  waitin'  for  her 
t'  get  the  use  o'  her  tongue.  Most  of  'em  's 
subject  t'  reg'lar  spells  o'  talkin'  like  somethin' 
loose  a-flappin'." 

Caroline  bit  her  lip  and  tried  another  tack. 

"What  do  you  think  the  greatest  gift  a 
woman  can  be  born  with,  Sarah?"  she  haz- 
arded after  a  time. 

"Common  sense,"  said  Sarah  succinctly, 
with  a  final  squint  at  the  trailing  folds  of  the 
longer  garment. 

[26] 


THE    TALE    OF    A    CHRISTENING 

"And  the  best  she  can  gain — her  best  ac- 
complishment?" plaintively  urged  the  softer 
voice,  determined  to  force  a  point. 

"Mindin'  her  own  business,"  rejoined  Sarah 
conclusively,  tramping  into  the  closet  and  re- 
placing the  wrapper.  "None  of  us  do  it,  but 
that's  neither  hither  nor  yon.  .  .  .  There  now," 
with  a  sudden  change  of  tone,  "what  with  all 
our  dallyin'  I'll  bet  she's  come  an'  found  us 
in  a  muss!" 

At  the  first  tap  of  a  summons  to  the  front 
door,  the  faint  pink  had  spread  quite  to  Caro- 
line's temples,  and  something  of  the  hue  was 
reflected  strangely  in  Sarah's  sallow  face  as 
the  expected  visitor,  having  been  admitted  by 
her,  swept  rustlingly  in  without  a  word  or  a 
nod,  and  deliberately  turned  her  back  to  give 
a  final  order  to  the  driver  of  the  vehicle  that 
had  brought  her. 

She  was  a  large  woman,  not  fleshy,  but  with 
squarish  hips  and  aggressive  shoulders,  and  a 
portly  erectness  of  carriage  that  made  her 
seem  larger  still.  A  certain  likeness  in  the 
features  which  had  the  same  unexpected 
pinched  look  might  have  enabled  a  close  ob- 

[27] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

server  to  identify  her  as  the  mother  of  Caro- 
line, but,  beyond  that,  there  was  scarcely  the 
vestige  of  a  resemblance.  Her  hair  at  fifty 
was  still  decidedly,  though  dully,  dark  and 
wound  about  her  head  with  conventional 
exactness.  The  conventions  in  appearance, 
indeed,  were  her  law  and  her  religion,  as  was 
apparent  in  the  smallest  personal  detail — in 
the  tiny,  even  teeth  which  the  dental  art  had 
subsituted  for  the  larger,  broad,  uneven  ones 
with  which  nature  had  endowed  her,  in  the 
"pinch"  glasses  that  had  traced  a  purple  line 
across  the  bridge  of  her  nose,  in  the  unyielding 
lines  of  her  high  waist,  in  the  hampered  gait 
which  her  cramped  footgear  made  necessary. 
A  distinctive  aura  that  surrounded  her  told  as 
plainly  as  if  she  had  been  branded  with  the  fact 
that  she  was  president  of  the  Brooklawn 
Ladies'  Social  League  and  the  Psychical  Re- 
search Society,  and  was  withal  that  greater 
pride  of  a  semi-rural  community,  a  "perfect" 
housekeeper.  Brooklawn  had  long  given  her 
its  unqualified  endorsement,  and  if  that  en- 
dorsement had  been  tinged  with  something 
warmer,  from  certain  quarters,  since  the  ru- 
[28] 


THE    TALE    OF    A    CHRISTENING 

mor  of  a  year  past  that  she  had  come  into  a 
handsome  legacy  from  a  departed  uncle,  she 
had  seemingly  felt  no  chagrin  at  it.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  any  fellow-townswoman  who  had 
been  similarly  blessed  would  have  gone  up  im- 
mediately in  her  own  estimation,  regardless  of 
other  considerations.  But  she  believed  her- 
self a  power  in  the  church  for  all  that.  Nor 
could  she  in  truth  be  said  to  be  a  hypocrite. 
In  popular  phrase,  she  lived  up  to  her  lights, 
only  that  the  lights  had  an  unhappy  way  of 
flickering  and  dimming  futilely,  and  even,  on 
occasion,  of  going  out  altogether,  like  poor 
little  hurt  and  disappointed  stars. 

She  removed  her  elaborately  feathered  bon- 
net and  drew  off  her  gloves  with  the  delibera- 
tion that  characterized  her,  before  making  any 
inquiries  about  Caroline,  and  let  her  gaze 
travel  with  a  mildly  shocked  expression  over 
the  striped  hemp  carpet,  the  flimsy  lawn  cur- 
tains, the  uncolored  prints  on  the  stained  paper 
walls,  and  even  the  harmless  and  entirely  inno- 
cent china  fruit-cellars  on  the  clock  shelf.  A 
sagging  clothesline  with  sundry  diminutive 
garments  met  her  eye  through  the  open  kitchen 

[29] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

door,  and  on  a  corner  table  beside  her  was  a 
yellow  wash-bowl  and  sponge  and  a  scattered 
heap  of  newspapers  on  which  lay  a  short  pipe 
and  a  streak  of  gray-white  ash.  The  table- 
cover  of  chenille  touched  the  floor  with  its  tas- 
seled  borders,  and  from  beneath  it  peeped  a 
ragged  magazine  and  the  toes  of  David's 
"Sunday"  shoes  dragged  there  by  their  laces 
by  the  O'Hara's  long-nosed  pup,  Snooty. 

On  the  whole,  it  was  a  rather  untidy  room, 
strewn  as  it  was  with  its  human  litter,  and  be- 
yond any  question  a  very  plain  one,  even  for 
a  time  when  a  real  luxury  was  still  rated  at  its 
full  value,  but  it  had,  notwithstanding,  that 
subtle  home  atmosphere  that  so  hopelessly 
cheapens  the  merely  luxurious. 

Mary  Stratman,  being  one  of  those  unfor- 
tunate, but  not  uncommon  women  who  pass 
through  a  half  century  or  more  in  this  world 
without  finding  out  any  of  the  really  good 
things  in  it,  needless  to  say,  failed  to  perceive 
it.  Her  mind  was  intent  upon  the  contrast 
between  this  poor,  childishly  arrayed  "parlor'* 
and  the  "drawing-room"  of  the  home  from 
which  Caroline  had  come,  with  its  weight  of 

[30] 


THE    TALE    OF    A    CHRISTENING 

velvet  rugs  and  hangings,  its  broad  pictures  in 
oil,  its  heavily  upholstered  furniture,  and  con- 
spicuous square  piano.  Why  this — this  place 
boasted  not  so  much  as  a  musical  instrument 
of  any  sort,  though  Caroline  had  had  six — yes, 
it  was  six,  terms  of  high-priced  lessons !  Every 
value-weighing  fibre  in  her  cried  out  against 
the  waste,  the  sinful  waste,  she  labeled  it  regret- 
fully, of  good  money.  Her  thought  slipped 
back  involuntarily  to  the  beginning  of  her  own 
married  life.  If  it  had  included  a  period  of 
judicious  pinching,  it  had  been  so  long  glossed 
over,  she  felt,  as  to  be  practically  wiped  out. 
Her  three  children,  all  daughters,  had  seen 
nothing,  heard  nothing,  through  her  care,  save 
of  the  later  prosperity — prosperity  that  had 
given  them  marked  advantages,  and  that  it  had 
been  tacitly  understood  was  to  mean  to  them 
one  thing — material  advancement  in  the  mat- 
ter of  marriage.  And  that  this  should  be,  so 
far,  the  sole  outcome  of  her  pains! 

She  comforted  herself  with  the  reflection 
that  there  had  been  no  story,  no  publicity  in 
connection  with  the  affair.  She  had  bent  her 
head  most  creditably,  she  considered,  to  the 

[81] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

inevitable.  And  then  there  were  still  left  to 
her  Ellen  and  Virginia,  both  older  than  this 
wayward  child,  and  therefore,  presumably,  less 
romantically  inclined.  That  she  would  be  so 
unfortunate  as  to  duplicate  this  experience,  she 
deemed  unlikely.  Meanwhile,  Caroline,  for 
all  her  gentleness  the  least  tractable  of  the 
three,  should  learn  the  error  of  her  way  by 
unmistakable  teaching,  and  the  lesson  would 
begin,  without  fuss  or  scene,  with  the  demon- 
stration that  her  mother's  attitude  toward  her 
was  now  solely  one  of  duty. 

"Mrs.  Stratman,  I  s'pose?"  said  Sarah  after 
a  fidgety  interval,  her  crooked  mouth  working 
with  the  effort  to  keep  an  instinctive  antagon- 
ism out  of  her  voice.  "You'll  find  your  daugh- 
ter in  there,"  indicating.  Her  duty  done,  she 
picked  up  her  sunbonnet,  and  departed 
straightway  for  other  fields,  turning  once  on 
the  porch  half  doubtfully. 

The  older  woman  stepped  inquiringly  into 
the  bedroom,  and  stopping  short,  studied  the 
occupant  of  the  rocker  for  a  moment,  and 
again,  because  good  things  had  an  unfortunate 
way  of  passing  her  by,  she  missed  the  soft  light 

[32] 


THE    TALE    OF    A    CHRISTENING 

of  motherhood  behind  the  girl's  glistening 
lashes,  the  new  tenderness  in  the  red  bow  of 
her  lips,  and  saw  only  the  cheapness  of  the 
material  of  the  dressing  sacque  she  had  hastily 
donned  and  the  coarseness  of  the  baby's  woolen 
shawl.  Still,  having  evidently  planned  to  do 
so,  she  kissed  Caroline  lightly  on  the  forehead, 
and  drew  a  chair  up  before  her.  She  said  she 
was  sorry  they  had  heard  nothing  from  her 
before,  and  that  she  herself  would  have  been 
the  first  to  write,  only  that  she  did  not  believe 
that  to  be  the  proper  way  to  treat  disobedience. 
She  felt,  too,  that  she  had  made  everything 
clear  from  the  first.  It  was  a  great  deal 
harder,  remember,  to  inflict  discipline  than  to 
bear  it.  (Caroline  had  heard  this  so  many 
times  she  believed  it  had  made  a  dull  little  rut 
in  her  brain.)  There  were  mothers,  Mrs. 
Stratman  further  averred,  who  washed  their 
hands  of  undutiful  daughters,  but  she  had 
stood  ready  always,  she  trusted,  to  do  her  part 
— a  part  which  just  now  it  appeared  she  be- 
lieved consisted  in  remaining  for  the  day,  and 
arranging  for  the  baby's  christening  during 
her  stay,  if  the  Reverend  Mr.  Lean,  the  parish 

[33] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

minister,  with  whom  she  had  some  acquaint- 
ance, could  be  procured  upon  such  short  notice. 
Had  the  christening  been  attended  to  as  yet? 
No? 

Well,  under  the  circumstances  it  was  quite 
as  well  that  it  had  not,  for  in  thinking  the 
matter  over,  she  had  settled  upon  the  name 
"Barinka"  for  a  great-aunt  of  her  own  whom 
she  had  always  held  in  high  esteem.  "I  chose 
a  name  from  my  side  of  the  house,"  was  her 
significant  observation;  "it  is  possible  that  she 
may  grow  into  a  good  woman."  Evidently 
the  two  ideas  were  analogous  in  her  mind,  for 
she  set  them  together  and  left  them  so,  drifting 
into  the  everyday  details  that  engrossed  her — 
the  bazaar  of  the  Brooklawn  church,  the 
rpillow-top  Ellen  was  embroidering  for  it,  the 
lavender  and  white  gown  she  was  having  made 
for  Virginia.  It  was  home  news,  and  Caroline, 
who  had  felt  so  hurt  at  being  cut  off  from  it 
all,  applied  herself  to  listen,  entering  her  care- 
ful "yeses"  and  "noes"  at  just  the  proper 
points,  while  in  desperate  undercurrent  she 
mapped  out  wildly  the  possible  career  of  a 
genius  concealed  under  the  name  of  Barinka. 

[34] 


THE    TALE    OF    A    CHRISTENING 

That  her  mother  never  wavered  in  her  deci- 
sions she  was  well  aware. 

Moreover,  though  she  was  slow  of  thought 
and  speech,  things  moved  as  a  rule  with  dis- 
patch with  Mrs.  Stratman.  Already,  having 
remembered  that  certain  household  prepara- 
tions might  be  necessary  to  a  christening,  she 
had  dropped  Virginia's  flounces  abruptly  at 
the  pipings,  and  begun  to  reconnoiter,  open- 
ing a  drawer  here  and  a  cupboard  there. 
Marthy  Prouty,  grown  suddenly  mutinous, 
stared  at  her  disapprovingly  from  the  kitchen 
door,  but  she  did  not  stare  long  before  she  re- 
ceived a  sharp  order,  and  on  the  heels  of  that, 
others  in  such  swift  succession  that,  as  she 
afterward  woefully  related,  she  "hadn't  time 
t'  draw  no  more'n  a  stunted  breath  between." 

At  noon,  David  came  in,  slackening  his  pace 
and  extending  his  hand  rather  consciously  at 
sight  of  his  guest.  Mrs.  Stratman,  bending 
over  the  table  for  certain  final  dinner  arrange- 
ments, hesitated  and  turned  partly  toward  him. 
But  she  caught  a  glimpse  in  turning  of  his 
workman's  jacket,  the  collar  of  which  was  al- 
ways bunched  up  on  one  side,  the  meek,  yet 

[35] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

determined,  bend  of  his  neck,  the  dreamy,  faith- 
ful, expectant  brown  eyes  which  never  failed 
to  irritate  her,  and  she  dropped  her  partially 
outstretched  hand,  and  the  expression  of  her 
mouth  became  so  drastic  as  to  make  the  little 
white  frill  at  her  throat  look  like  a  spring 
blossom  that  had  opened  mistakenly  out  in 
the  cold. 

"There  is  no  tea  in  the  house,  it  seems,"  she 
said,  seizing  upon  a  triviality,  and  feeling  that 
in  some  way  she  must  be  rid  of  him  to  get  her- 
self in  hand.  "I  always  take  tea  for  dinner," 
she  finished  pointedly.  And  David,  whose 
fingers  had  a,  way  of  growing  unsteady  in 
her  presence,  fumbled  for  his  hat,  and  has- 
tened forth  in  his  meager  nooning  to  supply 
the  deficiency. 

Directly  after  dinner,  Sarah,  turning  into 
the  street,  was  surprised  to  meet  the  usually 
good-natured  Marthy,  red-eyed  and  mum- 
bling, with  a  bundle  under  one  arm,  and  her 
best  hat,  rose-laden,  protruding  from  a  box 
under  the  other. 

"I'm  all  done,"  was  her  tearful  explana- 
tion. "I  hain't  never  stayed  under  shelter 

[36] 


THE    TALE    OF    A    CHRISTENING 

yet  with  no  such  a  tart  ol'  plum,  an'  I  don't 
reckon  I'm  agoin'  t'  begin  now.  If  I've  got 
to'  be  fit  like  that" — sob — "I'm  agoin  t'  show 
my  colors  ev'ry  time!  An'  all  becus'  she  got 
me  that  rattled  with  orders,  honest,  I  lumped 
the  gravy  as  any  human  might!  She's  a- 
queening  it  down  thar  somethin'  scan'lous," 
she  added  savagely,  "over  th'  hull  o'  'em,  too, 
from  Snooty  up  t'  David,  an'  b'  the  looks 
o'  things,  she's  got  'em  all  b'  the  ears!"  A 
bit  of  information  that  sent  Sarah  into 
O'Hara  Street  at  her  earliest  opportunity, 
only  to  find  the  queen  temporarily  departed, 
and  a  second  rebellious  subject  holding  the 
baby  to  her  breast  with  a  tenacity  that 
seemed  to  be  designed  to  defend  it  from 
something. 

The  day  had  told  on  Caroline.  There  was 
a  fever-spot  on  either  cheek  and  she  leaned 
forward  agitatedly  in  her  chair.  "Oh, 
Sarah,"  she  whispered  with  bare  coherence, 
for  the  childish  quiver  of  her  lips,  "mother's 
gone  out  to  get  the  minister.  She's  going  to 
have  the  baby  christened  Barinka." 

"Barinka!"      ejaculated     Sarah,      staring, 

[37] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

"Bar-enk-a!"  her  Yankee  tongue  faltering 
over  the  unaccustomed  syllables.  "Fer  mercy 
sakes,  whut's  that?  It  sounds  like  a  handful 
o'  cheap  forks!  She  didn't  lose  no  time  over 
it,"  she  pursued,  turning  and  pressing  the 
tip  of  her  aspiring  nose  to  the  window.  "I've 
got  a  vision  ef  there  she  ain't  now  with  th' 
parson  himself  atearin'  up  the  gravel  after 
her!  Look  ahere,  child,"  advancing  impul- 
sively and  putting  both  arms  with  unusual 
demonstration  around  her  young  sister-in- 
law,  "we  didn't  get  a  chance  t'  plan  much, 
that's  a  fact;  but  you — why  you  jus'  brace 
up  an'  smile,  an'  when  it  comes  t'  th'  namin' 
part,  you  look  at  me,  an'  you  call  that 
youngun  whatever  you  please!" 

Mrs.  Stratman  at  this  moment  swept  in 
majestically,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Lean,  who 
was  lean  in  name  only,  puffing  and  bowing 
in  her  wake.  He  was  an  eager,  benevolent 
little  man  whose  stomach  arrived  easily  in 
advance  of  him,  and  there  might  have  been 
an  habitual  twinkle  in  evidence  behind  his 
bristling  white  eyelashes  had  not  Cull  Prairie 
demanded  of  her  ministers  a  sober  eye.  As 

[38] 


THE    TALE    OF    A    CHRISTENING 

it  was,  he  had  learned  the  art  of  chuckling 
spasmodically  within,  while  preserving  an 
outward  demeanor  to  which  his  deacons  could 
take  no  exception.  Having  gained  the  im- 
pression that  the  case  was  urgent,  he  pro- 
ceeded at  once  to  the  service. 

"Name  this  child,"  he  began  solemnly,  dip- 
ping his  broad  hand  authoritatively  into  the 
bowl  which  had  been  provided  for  the  pur- 
pose. 

"Elizabeth  Anne,"  interposed  Caroline  dis- 
tinctly, before  the  words  were  well  out  of 
his  mouth.  The  red  circles  on  her  cheeks 
had  grown  perceptibly,  and  her  eyes  sought 
the  little  dark  snapping  ones  opposite  her, 
as  if  she  were  hypnotized. 

Sarah  sighed  relievedly,  and  turned  her 
gaze  out  of  the  window  across  the  dull  and 
crooked  street,  but  never  having  attended  a 
christening  before,  and  being  by  no  means 
sure  that  the  crisis  was  past,  she  sat  crouched 
tensely  in  her  place  like  a  dozing  spaniel 
with  one  ear  alert  for  hostilities. 

Mrs.  Stratman  opened  her  lips  dumbly, 
and  closed  them  again  with  unnecessary  tight- 

[39] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

ness;  then  she  interlaced  her  fingers  slowly 
and  painfully,  so  that  the  white  showed  in 
little  bands  at  the  knuckles,  and  kept  them 
so  until  the  solemn  voice  died  out.  She  did 
not  allude  to  the  subject  thereafter,  and  in 
the  few  remaining  hours  of  her  stay,  Caro- 
line, struggling  with  a  strange  mixture  of 
remorse  and  triumph  and  bodily  weakness, 
strove  to  bring  back  some  of  the  pleasant 
features  of  their  life  together  only  to  feel 
the  utter  futility  of  the  effort,  and  to  wel- 
come at  last  with  a  relief  of  -which  she  was 
heartily  ashamed,  the  final  grating  in  depar- 
ture of  the  carriage  wheels  on  the  gravelly 
street. 

So  visibly  she  moped,  however,  over  her 
memory  of  the  occasion  in  the  days  to  come, 
that  Mrs.  O'Hara,  attributing  her  grief  to 
the  absence  of  a  christening  party  and  guess- 
ing shrewdly  at  the  state  of  her  finances, 
arranged  a  sort  of  post-christening  function 
to  which  the  guests  were  requested  to  bring 
their  own  refreshments.  They  came  in  force 
and  riotously  with  their  cakes  and  their  babies 
(for  babies  wtere  the  distinguishing  feature  of 

[40] 


THE    TALE    OF    A    CHRISTENING 

Cull  Prairie)  and  Caroline,  who  by  some 
freak  of  heredity  was  a  democrat  born,  shook 
their  hands  affectionately  and  laughed  with 
them  until  the  tears  stood  in  her  blue  eyes. 
But  in  the  midst  of  festivities  she  stole  into 
the  bedroom  where  the  babies  lay,  and  care- 
fully lifting  her  own  babe  from  amongst  the 
warm  and  sleeping  infants  (not  deeming  it 
meet  that  genius  should  consort  with  the 
commonplace)  she  laid  hers  selectly  in  her 
crib,  which  happened  to  be  only  a  clothes 
basket  off  duty. 

"I  wouldn't  mix  up  the  babies,"  advised 
David  in  a  whisper,  cautiously  tiptoeing  'after 
her.  "Are  you  sure  now" — a  shade  of  real 
anxiety  in  his  voice — "that  you  got  the  right 
one?" 

"As  if!"  indignantly  gasped  Caroline,  who 
would  have  known  Elizabeth  Anne  in  Cim- 
merian darkness  by  her  faintest  move  or 
whimper.  "As  if!" 


THE  SHADOWS  ON  THE  WALK 


Ill 

THE  SHADOWS  ON  THE  WALK 

The  party  call  was  not  an  institution  In 
Cull  Prairie,  observances  of  this  nature  being 
among  the  least  of  its  burdens;  therefore  it 
could  only  be  said  that  "Grandma"  Prouty 
and  Miss  Mittie  Peeler  from  the  squat,  twin 
red  houses  beyond  the  O'Hara's  had  hap- 
pened upon  the  social  code  by  accident. 

If  a  suspicion,  ever  so  faint  a  suspicion  of 
the  fact,  had  been  thrust  upon  the  two,  in 
truth,  they  would  have  opened  their  mouths 
and  their  colorless  eyes,  and  shook  their  heads 
in  apolgetic  wonder.  "We  only  come  t'  see 
the  baby  b'  daylight,"  Miss  Mittie  would  have 
maintained  feebly  and  asthmatically. 

The  baby  was  not  unprepared  for  the 
emergency.  Snugly  ensconced  in  a  sheltered 
corner  of  the  uncertain  porch  which  sagged 
alarmingly  in  a  laudably  persistent  effort  to 
demonstrate  the  principle  of  the  inclined 
plane,  she  had  thus  far  accepted  with  the 

[45] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

same  fine  show  of  indifference  the  various 
features  of  the  pageantry  of  life,  as  it  ap- 
peared to  her,  from  the  three  fat  geese  that 
waddled  up  periodically  to  sozzle  their  great 
orange  bills  in  the  little  shining  rain  pools  in 
the  weekly  front  yard,  to  the  touzle-headed 
youngsters  peeping  daily  through  the  gaping 
pickets,  and  darting  like  startled  rabbits  be- 
hind the  bushes  at  the  signal  of  a  slamming 
screen  door  on  their  own  side  of  the  fence, 
and  a  loud  injunction  to  "come  away  an'  lave 
the  babby  shlape." 

One  is  not  given  to  keen  discrimination 
just  at  first,  but  there  comes  a  day,  a  new 
day,  and  presto!  a  difference  is  borne  in  upon 
one  for  all  that.  Elizabeth  Anne's  earliest 
discovery  in  relation  to  the  taller  figures 
which  seemed  to  come  unchallenged  and 
whose  long  illusive  shadows  slipped  ghost- 
like in  and  out  on  the  gravelled  walk,  cen- 
tered about  the  memory  that  it  was  these  that 
were  wont  to  chatter  noisily  above  one,  and 
sometimes  even  to  take  liberties  with  one's 
person. 

"Grandma"  Prouty  had  pinched  the  round, 

[46] 


THE   SHADOWS   ON    THE   WALK 

pink,  defenseless  cheeks  of  a  modest  army  of 
babies  in  the  course  of  her  sixty  years,  but 
her  rough,  sturdy,  little  thumb  and  fore- 
finger were  still  unremitting  in  their  energy. 
She  was  a  round,  pitifully  bent,  bunchy,  little 
old  creature,  with  a  seamed  yellow  face,  but- 
toned with  warts,  a  sparse,  wispy  knob  of 
grayish  hair  bobbing  aggressively  over  her 
crown,  and  a  sharpness  of  speech  and  manner 
carefully  calculated  to  hide  the  real  warmth 
of  her  childishly  simple  heart. 

She  refused  the  chair  which  Caroline  hos- 
pitably dragged  forth  for  her,  and  perched 
her  odd  stubby  little  body  obstinately  on 
the  top  porch-step. 

"You  hain't  said  a  thing  about  Her  Sweet- 
ness," wheezingly  reproved  Miss  Mittie, 
stepping  over  to  the  basket  and  tenderly 
rearranging  the  enveloping  netting  which 
"Grandma's"  manipulations  had  left  awry. 
She  was  thin  and  bent  and  bloodless,  and  a 
long  siege  at  the  village  woolen  mills  had  put 
factory  hollows  into  her  pale,  shrunken  cheeks 
and  under  her  humble,  watery  eyes. 

"No,    ner    I    hain't    agoin*    to,"    rejoined 

[47] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

"Grandma"  Prouty  decisively,  stiffening  her 
seamed  little  old  neck  and  twirling  her 
thumbs  independently,  while  Mittie  released 
her  hold  of  the  netting  and  slid  down  awk- 
wardly and  apologetically  beside  her  hostess 
on  the  step  below.  "Ef  thar's  one  thing 
sickens  me  more'n  another  in  this  here  yearth 
it's  the  talk  some  wimmin  makes  'bout  any 
youngun  thet's  onlucky  enough  t'  git  near 
'em.  Yassir!  I  got  that  wrought  up  only 
yistidy  night  'bout  it,  I  couldn't  relish  m' 
supper,  though  we'd  pertaters  in  their  skins 
an'  onion  gravy  as  nobudy  need  be  ashamed 
t'  hev  water  their  mouth.  'Twas  th'  fleshiest 
o'  them  three  fat  wimmin  that's  a-boardin'  t' 
yer  siser-in-law's,  Mis'  Langdon,  thet  set  me 
goin'.  Sez  she  t'  me  a-standin'  out  in  front 
o'  Mort  Peeler's  place  where  little  Joy  wuz 
a-settin'  in  her  cart,  she  sez,  a-cooin'  like  th' 
cooinist  dove,  sez  she,  'Thar's  wonderful 
things  in  a  baby's  eyes,  hain't  thar?  Trees,' 
she  sez,  'an'  gay  little  ships  an'  noddin'  flow- 
ers an'  runnin'  brooks.'  An'  sez  I,  a-takin' 
her  up  none  too  sociable,  'I  dunno,'  I  sez,  'I 
hain't  got  no  picture-machine  in  my  eye.  D'ye 

[48] 


THE   SHADOWS   ON    THE   WALK 

see  'em  in  his'n,  too?'  fer  she  was  atotin'  one 
o'  them  puny,  curled  dogs  with  a  ribbon-bow 
big  ez  a  cabbage  on  his  misfortunit  scrawny 
neck.  An'  if  ye'll  b'leeve  me  she  lifts  up  her 
head  an'  walks  away  like  I  wasn't  wuth  an- 
swerin'  back!" 

"Why,  gran 'ma,"  mildly  expostulated  Miss 
Mittie,  coloring  faintly,  and  searching  Caro- 
line's face  for  her  view  of  the  matter,  "didn't 
ye  know  that  them  kind  o'  folks  is  trained 
frum  younguns  up  t'  either  talk  sweet,  er 
else  go  it  dumb?  Purty  speakin'  comes 
nat'ral  t'  them  that's  got  it  easy;  not  but 
whut  thar's  some  that  hain't  too,  as  speaks 
awful  takin'.  Why,  th'  las'  call  I  made  on 
Mis'  Bowers  over  t'  Horton,  she  sez  t'  me, 
awipin'  her  eyes,  she  sez,  *I  never  see  a  little 
youngun  anywheres,  not  the  dirties'  ner  th' 
shabbies','  she  sez,  'but  it  puts  me  in  mind 
o'  some  kind  o'  ,a  posy,  ef  it's  only  a  raggedy 
marigold  awantin'  water.' ' 

"Grandma's"  pert  little  chin  went  up  with 
a  sudden  jerk.  !  . 

"Well,  I  reckon  her'n  is  about  as  much 
in  need  b'  water  as  any  of  'em,"  she  sniffed, 

[49] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

nothing  daunted.  "Them  Anse  Bowerses  is 
too  anxious  'bout  diggin'  money  out  o'  them 
two-hundred-odd  acres  o'  theirn  t'  pay  much 
heed  t'  th'  right  an'  proper  bringin'  up  o' 
their  offsprings.  Pore  things!  They're 
arunnin'  aroun'  unkemp'  an'  half-clad  most 
o'  th'  time,  asneezin'  an'  acoughin',  an'  apick- 
in'  up  troubles  off  an'  on,  o'  ev'ry  color  in 
th'  land  frum  the  pink  eye  t'  the  black 
measles,  an'  from  the  yaller  janders  back  t' 
the  brown  keeters. 

"Yassir!  Ye  shore  mind  their  Corabelle, 
her  as  went  six  years  ago,  come  Christmas, 
o'  the  scarlet  fever?  They  wuz  alivin'  down 
on  the  oF  Whitby  place,  then,  an'  a  tumble 
time  they  give  the  town  of  it — what  with  the 
fear  o'  ketchin'  it,  an'  the  ol'  Doc  agivin' 
orders  f er  all  us  wimmen  folks  t'  stay  t' 
home  lest  we  should  carry  it  in  our  clo'es. 
My  land  o'  livin',  I  don't  take  no  stock  in 
nuthin'  like  that!  'S  if  ye  c'd  gether  up  a  fit 
o'  sickness  er  a  fever  speckle  in  yer  apron! 

"Them  doctors  an'  sich-like  ain't  never 
satisfied,  that's  all,  less'n  they  got  the  hull 
say-so.  Want  t'  tell  ye  when  ye'll  clap  yer 

[50] 


THE   SHADOWS   ON   THE   WALK 

bunnit  onto  yer  head,  an'  walk  outer  yer 
own  door!  'Not  me,'  says  I  t'  Gaby.  I 
dunno  when  it  comes  right  to  it  but  whut  I 
seen  th'  thing  acomin'  'bout  ez  quick  ez  any 
of  'em.  Yassir!  I'd  a  sign,  I  had,  th'  night 
'fore  Corabelle  come  down,  an'  sez  I  t' 
Marthy,  'thar's  some  plague  er  death  acomin' 
t'  this  here  town.  You  mark  my  words.  I 
don't  git  no  dream  like  the  one  I  jus'  had, 
fer  nuthin'.'  'N'  shore  enough  it  proved  up, 
too. 

"Corabelle  she  went  'side  o'  a  month,  an' 
goodness  me!  but  she  wuz  a  sad  little  with- 
ered up  thing  in  all  them  flowers  an'  satin. 
Pore  chil'I  Too  bad,  I  sez,  they  couldn't 
aspent  a  little  more  on  her  whilst  she  wuz 
alivin'.  Dear  knows,  she  ust  t'  plead  some- 
thing pitiful  t'  go  along  t'  th'  fair  down  t' 
Horton.  But  Anse  he  couldn't  spare  her  th' 
time  frum  weed  pullin'  an'  hoein'.  Gome  t' 
die,  though,  an'  they  totes  her  fer  th'  fun'ral 
clean  t'  th'  Mantey's  church  in  Piperstown 
(Mis'  Bowers  bein'  a  Mantey  'fore  she  wuz 
married).  Gaby  an'  me  we  rode  along,  bein' 
ast  t'  go  special.  Pore  ol'  Gaby,  a  common 

[51] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

house  fun'ral  was  all  he  got  when  he  come 
t'  go  in  the  spring,  though  I  hev  thought 
time  an'  again,  ef  only  he  could  'a'  seen  Jedge 
Hawkins  asettin'  thar  nigh  the  coffin,  an' 
awipin'  them  thar  yallar-rimmed  specs  o' 
his'n  on  that  silk  handkercher  'twould  'a' 
made  up  to  'im  fer  'tall." 

"Well,  the  baby's  astirrin'  out  o'  her  little 
doze  at  las',  and  awhimperin'  t'  git  took  up," 
gaspingly  broke  in  Miss  Mittie,  realizing  that 
Grandma  was  well  astride  a  gruesome  hobby, 
and  welcoming  the  diversion. 

"She's  got  a  nose  jus'  like  her  Aunty's, 
hain't  she?"  queried  Grandma,  condescending 
to  take  notice.  "They  ain't  very  much  fer 
purty,  but  they  may  be  all  right  fer  smellin', 
an'  I  dunno  what  else  a  nose  wuz  created 
fer." 

Caroline's  response,  as  she  delved  with  min- 
istrant  arms  among  the  pillows,  was  lost  in 
a  wail  of  babyish  protest,  but  sympathetic 
Miss  Mittie,  catching  sight  of  the  hurt  ex- 
pression of  her  mouth,  squirmed  in  her  place, 
and  threw  herself  headlong  into  the  breach. 

"Why  I  allus  heerd  that  beauty  wuz  all  in 

[52] 


THE   SHADOWS   ON    THE   WALK 

yer  taste,"  she  burst  forth  ingratiatingly  in 
the  painful  staccato  cut  by  her  uncertain 
breath,  "thar's  some  likes  'em  light-com- 
plected now,  like  yer  baby,  an'  others  '11  pick 
the  dark  uns,  say,  like  Brother  Mort's  little 
Joy.  Brother  Mort's  folks  is  somewhat  down 
at  the  heel,  Mrs.  Langdon,  'specially  sence 
they  wuz  burnt  out;  but  their  baby  sure  is 
awful  nice  t'  look  at,  in  a  dark-complected 
way,  ef  ye  don't  mind  my  sayin'  so.  Mort's 
wumman's  got  th'  'flammatory  rheumatism, 
so  I  tends  it,  sometimes,  frum  mornin'  till 
night,  when  I  hain't  able  t'  be  t'  the  fac'try. 
Why,  it'll  sit  thar  all  day  long  in  that 
ol'  wopper- jawed  cart  it's  got>  alookin'  up 
at  me  with  them  big  black  eyes  a-asking 
jest  ez  plain  ez  any  langwidge,  'why  in  th' 
worl'  did  I  come  t'  sech  a  place  ez  this?' 
"Why  in  th'  worl'— God's  worl'?  It's  the 
same  idee,  I'm  free  t'  tell  ye.  I've  had 
m'self,  time  an'  again,  though  that  thar 
speaker  thet  wuz  atalkin'  down  t'  the  Sun- 
day-school sez  I'd  got  t'  be  red  o'  it,  er  sin 
somethin'  awful.  'Think  o'  yer  blessin's  ye 
ongrateful  wumman,'  sez  she  t'  me  kind  o' 

[53] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

stern-like,  when  I  lets  out  t'  her  down  thar  a 
mite,  'say  'em  right  out,  like  they  wuz  a  piece 
ye  knowed  by  heart — ev'rything  ye've  got  t' 
be  thankful  fer.'  An'  sez  I  t'  her,  athinkin' 
quick,  I  sez,  'I'm  glad  I  hain't  no  foolisher 
'n  I  be,  an'  I'm  glad  that  thar  moley  bunch 
o'  mine's  on  m'  neck,  'stid  o'  on  m'  nose;  I'm 
glad  m'  bunions  don't  hurt  me  all  the  year 
'round,  an*  thet  m'  asthmy  don't  down  me 
more'n  once  a  week;  an'  I'm  glad  thar's  one 
young  un  an'  a  cat  likes  me,  an'  thet  I  don't 
hev  t'  die  more'n  once,'  I  sez,  'so  there !'  An' 
sez  she  t'  me,  'Dear  soul,'  she  sez,  her 
shoulders  ashakin'  like  she  wuz  laughin'  er 
cryin',  'it's  th*  common  things  makes  up  th' 
real  blessin's,'  she  sez,  'remember  that.'  An' 
I  do  sometimes  when  I  looks  at  Joy,  an'  she 
looks  back  at  me  an' — whut's  yer  hurry, 
Gran'ma?  Ye  hain't  put  on  yer  bunnit,  ner 
said  good-bye,  ner  nuthinV 

But  "Grandma"  Prouty,  who  never  lis- 
tened to  another's  stories  if  she  could  help 
it,  was  already  fumbling  with  the  gate  latch. 

"I  expec'  I  got  t'  go,  then,  too,"  reluct- 
antly sighed  Miss  Mittie,  slipping  her  hand 

[54] 


THE   SHADOWS   ON   THE   WALK 

out  by  degrees  from  under  Caroline's  sym- 
pathetic pressure,  "er  she  won't  speak  t'  me 
fer  a  week."  She  lifted  her  whitish,  watery 
eyes,  behind  which  few  suspected  the  richly 
maternal  soul.  "I  like  younguns  anyway  I 
find  'em,  Mis'  Langdon,"  she  was  wheezing 
in  farewell,  "an'  mebbe,"  guilelessly,  "I'm 
some  foolish  'bout  Joy,  her  bein'  s'  fat  an' 
healthy,  an'  with  featur's  all  straight.  So 
ye'll  excuse  me  p'rhaps  fer  praisin'  'er  up  the 
way  I  done,  an'  .  .  .  good-bye,  an'  .  .  .  wait, 
gran'ma!" 

Caroline,  who  had  risen,  and  stood  with 
one  slender  hand  clasping  the  post,  would 
have  smiled  tolerantly  as  the  two  shambled 
out  of  the  path  into  the  street,  but  somehow 
the  vision  of  Mort's  baby  with  "features  all 
straight "  sobered  her,  and  she  turned,  and 
leaning  over  the  basket,  fixed  her  attention 
earnestly  on  the  yawning  mite  within. 

Time,  which  was  doing  much  for  the  dis- 
tressing redness,  had  wrought  also  a  head- 
covering  wondrously  fine — a  faint,  delicate 
shadow  of  hair  so  light  in  its  growth  that  it 
looked  not  unlike  a  sprinkling  of  golden 

[55] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

pollen  from  some  hidden  fairy  mimosa. 
Would  it  have  any  ultimate  effect  on  the 
tip-tilted  nose,  the  abbreviated  upper  lip,  the 
slightly  underhung  chin?  Somewhere  among 
the  remarkable  Stories  of  plastic  infant  linea- 
ments that  had  been  stored  away  uncon- 
sciously in  her  memory  was  the  tale  of  a 
woman  who  had  transformed  a  thick,  ugly 
mouth  for  her  child  into  a  veritable  rosebud 
apparently  by  sheer  force  of  will.  A  nose, 
however,  she  already  had  an  inkling,  was  a 
finical  member  when  it  came  to  a  case  of 
modeling  or  remodeling.  No;  let  her  hold 
to  that  consoling  breadth  of  baby-brow,  those 
clear,  bright,  blue-gray  baby-eyes.  Plainly 
it  was  given  to  her  to  assist  in  the  formation 
of  a  mental  kink  or  curve  that  should  put  to 
shame  the  mere  curve  of  beauty.  "Patience, 
then!"  whispered  the  wind  in  the  little  front 
yard,  stirring  the  very  tips  of  the  soldierly  trees 
at  the  gate,  murmurously,  as  if  to  send,  at 
the  same  time,  the  whispered  word  of  coun- 
sel abroad  to  many  mothers,  and  again, 
"Patience!" 

[56] 


ADVENTURES    OF   A    "GENIUS" 


IV 

f. 

ADVENTURES  OF  A  "GENIUS" 

One  must  learn  to  pay  for  one's  promo- 
tions in  this  world. 

When  Elizabeth  Anne  had  attained  to  the 
dignity  of  her  own  trundle  bed,  a  little  bear 
came  out  of  the  darkness  with  nightly  regu- 
larity— a  hairy,  pink-tongued,  menacing  little 
bear.  To  charm  him  away,  not  infrequently 
all  but  exhausted  the  family  repertory  of 
story  and  song,  and  incidentally  brought  to 
light  unlocked  for  literary  discrimination  on 
the  part  of  the  little  bear  himself. 

"  We  should  see  the  spirits  ringing 
'Round  thee  were  the  clouds  away; 

'  Tis  the  child  heart  draws  them  singing 
In  the  silent  seeming  clay. 

Singing,  stars  that  seem  the  mutest 
Go  in  music  all  the  way." 

offered  Caroline  sweetly  and  ineffectually,  on 
one  side  of  the  bed  at  these  times. 

[59] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

And 

"  There  was  a  frog  who  lived  in  a  spring, 
Water  was  so  cold,  he  couldn't  sing, 
So  he  tied  his  tail  to  a  hick'ry  stump 
And  he  reared  and  kicked,  but  he  couldn't  jump," 

offered  Sarah  on  '(the  other,  a  "classic"  which 
from  the  moment  of  its  first  rendering  had 
the  effect  of  putting  the  unwelcome  visitor 
(probably  by  the  outrage  of  his  poetic  in- 
stincts) to  immediate  if  temporary  rout. 
Mother  Goose  refused  to  own  it,  Sarah 
averred,  but  It  belonged  to  somebody  in  the 
Goose  family,  possibly  Uncle. 

It  troubled  Caroline  to  reflect  that  this  was 
the  only  "verse"  in  which  this  daughter  of 
promise  had  yet  manifested  any  particular 
interest,  and  her  surprise  was  great  when 
with  the  rapid  passing  of  time  Elizabeth 
Anne  betrayed  no  marked  elevation  of  taste. 

But  she  set  herself  to  remember  that  she 
was  as  yet  unaware  of  the  order  of  genius 
that  had  been  intrusted  to  her  care.  Clearly 
it  was  not  of  the  domestic  variety  which  ani- 
mates so  many  little  girls.  The  little  toy 
broom,  pushed  abstractedly  through  the 

[60] 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  "GENIUS" 

center  of  a  room,  as  a  boy  might  have  pushed 
it,  told  that. 

Neither  was  it  of  the  maternal  sort,  pos- 
sessed by  girl  mothers  the  world  over.  Eliza- 
beth Anne's  doll,  Mercedes,  a  radiant  creature 
of  wax,  purchased  by  David  in  an  affluent 
moment,  was  her  rival,  never  her  baby. 

"I  s'pose  you  are  prettier'n  I  am,"  she 
was  once  heard  to  observe  wistfully  to  the 
waxen  beauty  (for  a  girl  child  is  born  with 
this  knowledge),  "but  then  you  see,"  reflec- 
tively, "they  had  to  give  sixty  cents  for  you, 
but  God  gave  'em  me  for  nothing." 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  Mercedes  was 
relegated  to  the  box  in  which  she  arrived 
(Caroline  having  all  due  respect  for  the 
sensitiveness  of  budding  genius),  and  Bogey, 
a  veteran  alley  cat,  blind  in  one  eye  and 
scarred  like  a  German  duelist,  supplanted 
her. 

Elizabeth  Anne  rejoiced  in  Bogey,  chiefly 
perhaps  for  the  reason  that  she  felt  easily 
superior  to  him  in  personal  appearance.  Un- 
fortunately, and  as  the  only  drawback  to  an 
otherwise  delightful  personality,  he  was  a 

[61] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

victim  of  the  wanderlust,  and  was  only  in- 
duced to  remain  by  being  shut  in  the  wood- 
shed, a  form  of  penance  at  which  he  protested 
with  long-drawn  eloquence. 

"Faith'n  that  bluddy  owld  spalpeen'll  be 
singin'  wan  song  too  manny  some  wan  av 
these  toimes,"  prophesied  old  "Uncle"  Pete 
O'Hara,  who  made  his  home  with  his  niece 
Maggie,  and  took  a  profound  interest  in  all 
the  affairs  of  the  neighborhood,  "an'  thin  be 
all  th'  powers — "  darkly  leaving  the  threat 
open  to  conjecture,  "an'  thin!" — 

And  Elizabeth  Anne,  hopping  nimbly  from 
one  skinny  leg  to  the  other,  promptly  electri- 
fied the  minister's  wife,  then  arriving,  with 
the  polite  injunction:  "Don't  be  afraid,  Mis' 
Lean,  it's  only  my  bluddy  awld  spalpeen  av 
a  cat." 

The  "song"  was  black  Bogey's  last,  it  hap- 
pened, for  next  morning  Belle  O'Hara,  who 
was  three  years  Elizabeth  Anne's  senior,  and 
who  laid  claim  to  previous  ownership  of  the 
animal,  dragged  him  limp  and  lifeless  from 
the  alleyway  where  he  had  been  thrown,  into 
the  Langdon's  back  yard. 

[62] 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  "GENIUS" 

Belle  O'Hara,  the  last  of  a  long  line  of 
O'Haras,  was  a  rather  startling  looking  child, 
pallid  as  a  gardenia,  and  very  thin,  with 
hunched  shoulders,  a  contracted  chest,  large 
protruding  china-blue  eyes  and  a  long,  sharp 
chin  that  thrust  its  way  inquisitively  into 
everything. 

"  'Tis  a  wake  we'll  be  afther  havin',"  she 
announced  gravely  to  Elizabeth  Anne,  having 
disposed  Bogey  to  her  satisfaction  against 
the  cerise  tissue  paper  lining  of  an  incom- 
modious shoe-box  coffin.  "Ye  see  'tis  this 
way:  Oi'll  chry  'Bogey  is  dead,'  an'  thin  ye'll 
chry  it,  an'  thin  we'll  both  chry  it  togither, 
an'  sthart  in  over  agin,  an'  th'  more  tears 
ye've  got  th'  betther.  *  *  *  Och!  Bogey  is 
dead,  Bogey  is  dead,  me  poor,  poor  owld 
Bogey!" 

And  because  she  was  born  mistress  of  the 
art  of  weeping,  real  tears  hung  on  her  long 
dark  lashes,  and  rolled  down  slowly  and 
pathetically  to  the  white  point  of  her  chin. 

Elizabeth  Anne  witnessed  the  performance 
with  considerable  interest,  her  forefinger  in 
her  mouth,  her  heel  dug  speculatively  into 

[63] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

the  soft  ground.  Somehow,  although  she 
could  not  have  told  why,  the  Springtime 
which  was  then  looking  with  inspired  gaze 
over  sodden  Cull  Prairie  did  not  seem  like 
a  season  of  grief. 

A  delicate  warmth,  subtle  and  alluring, 
was  stealing  into  the  very  heart  of  things. 
It  swelled  the  red-fringed  maple  buds,  and 
crept  like  a  thing  of  life  among  the  newest 
grass  blades;  it  stirred  in  the  coaxing  breeze, 
and  restored  the  far-away  and  long  dull 
woodland  to  a  thin,  indefinite  color  that 
seemed  to  have  been  smeared  on  by  brownie 
fingers.  Something  of  the  coming  vigor  and 
gladness  was  taking  hold  of  her  uncon- 
sciously in  every  active  inch  of  her  wiry  little 
body. 

But  she  meant  to  do  her  part,  and  do  it 
conscientiously.  "Ah,  Bogey  is  dead.  Bogey 
is  dead,  me  poor,  poor  old  Bogey,"  she  be- 
gan faithfully  in  her  turn,  but  though  her 
regret  was  quite  sincere,  the  wail  was  con- 
spicuously absent,  and  she  was  obliged  to 
dig  both  eyes  painfully  to  secure  even  a  sem- 
blance of  tears — an  embarrassing  circum- 

[64] 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  "GENIUS" 

stance  by  no  means  lost  upon  the  observant 
Belle,  who  ishook  her  head  dismally  and  burst 
forth  afresh.  "Shure  I'm  chryin'  now  for  th' 
flint  heart  av  ye,"  was  her  contemptuous  ex- 
planation between  sobs.  J  > 

It  was  partly  because  of  her  extreme  youth 
that  Elizabeth  Anne  accepted  jibes  of  this 
sort  with  meek  and  chastened  spirit,  and  re- 
mained the  staunch  friend  and  admirer  of 
Belle  O'Hara,  but  a  more  potent  reason  lay 
in  the  fact  that  Belle  sometimes  flatteringly 
begged  her  companionship  in  her  far  ings 
forth  into  the  wonderful  outer  world  beyond 
the  confining  pickets. 

There  was  a  Union  Sunday-school  within 
easy  walking  distance — the  only  one  that  then 
convened  in  the  village — and  the  O'Hara 
children  found  it  much  to  their  liking,  par- 
ticularly in  the  holiday  seasons. 

"On  Aster  Sunday  there'll  be  eggs,"  Belle 
took  to  remarking  with  the  beginning  of 
Spring,  "tacher  says  so — painted  wans,  says 
she.  Ask  yer  mither  t'  lave  ye  go  along  an' 
git  wan.  Painted  er  no,  mayhap  a  body  c'n 
ate  'em,  annyhow." 

[65] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

Now  an  egg  was  not  a  particular  luxury 
in  the  dietary  of  Elizabeth  Anne,  but  a 
painted  one,  being  an  entire  novelty,  seemed 
another  matter,  and  the  idea  of  receiving  it  as 
a  gift  added  sensibly  to  its  attraction. 

So  it  was  a  very  radiant  little  girl  who 
stepped  forth  on  Easter  Sunday,  starched 
and  curled  and  star-eyed,  and  with  slim,  clean 
hand  very  confident  in  Belle's  rough-knuckled 
little  fist. 

Never  though,  in  the  wildest  stretch  of  her 
fancy,1  could  she  have  guessed  that  there  were 
such  long  and  wearisome  preliminaries  lead- 
ing up  to  a  mere  egg. 

Her  cherished  new  straw  hat  with  its  daisy 
wreath,  overshadowed  by  the  more  preten- 
tious headgear  of  the  two  larger  girls  be- 
tween whom  she  sat,  began  to  incline  rakishly 
over  one  ear;  her  white  dress  had  lost  its 
one-time  freshness,  her  dangling  feet  ached 
wretchedly,  and  a  sort  of  sullen  sleepiness  was 
fast  overpowering  her,  when  a  sharp  prod 
from  a  reminding  elbow  forced  her  into  an 
upright  position. 

"Don't  shlape  now,  whativer  ye  do,"  urged 

[66] 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  "GENIUS" 

Belle  in  a  muffled  undertone,  "th'  eggs  is 
comin'  at  lasht,  begorry!  Oi  thot  they  was 
waitin'  for  th'  bins  t'  lay.  *  *  *  Come  on  wid 
th'  eggs!  Nuthin's  too  good  for  th'  Irish!" 

It  was  true  indeed.  Ardently  watched  for, 
they  were  something  of  a  shock  when  they 
arrived,  and  adding  appreciably  to  this  shock 
was  their  condition  of  incompleteness,  for 
each  "egg,"  it  was  revealed  upon  examina- 
tion, consisted  of  a  half  shell,  splotched  with 
red  paint  about  the  edge  for  decoration,  and 
with  a  miniature  doll  of  cotton  batting  repos- 
ing within. 

"They're  sweet,"  whispered  Elizabeth 
Anne,  rubbing  her  heavy  lids  and  rising 
dazedly  to  the  occasion. 

"Be  th'  greedy  eye  av  her,"  growled  Belle, 
scraping  her  feet  in  an  abandon  of  wrath,  "if 
she  ain't  wint  an'  tuk  out  th'  mate!  'Tis  th' 
sthingy  wan  she  is,  an'  no  mishtake!" 

"Belle  O'Hara!"  at  this  point  exasper- 
atedly  exclaimed  the  teacher  in  charge,  a 
trim,  soft-stepping  maiden  lady,  "pray  tell 
me  how  you  got  the  talking  habit." 

"Shure   me   mither   put   a   sthick    in    me 

[67] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

mouth,  ye  pussy- futted  humbug,"  retorted 
the  already  overtried  Belle,  sotto  voce,  "f 
keep  it  firiver  open!" 

The  lady  being  occupied  and  somewhat 
deaf,  passed  on  none  the  wiser,  but  the  report 
of  this  little  passage  at  arms  in  another 
quarter  brought  about  very  unexpected  re- 
sults, and  for  days  Elizabeth  Anne,  learning 
the  loneliness  of  the  exclusive,  saw  nothing  of 
Belle  O'Hara  save  now  and  then  an  elusive 
glimpse  of  her  spindling  length  from  the 
kitchen  window. 

It  was  a  dull  prospect,  to  say  the  least  of 
it,  and  she  gazed  gloomily  and  unseeingly 
from  the  rose-red  geranium  on  the  window 
sill  to  the  tall  and  paintless  back-yard  fence 
and  dangled  her  brown  stockinged  legs  so 
dejectedly  that  Caroline,  watching  her,  was 
moved  to  try  a  certain  experiment  she  had 
had  in  mind  for  some  time. 

Where  had  she  read  of  the  moodiness  of 
artistic  genius?  "Draw,  Betty,"  she  com- 
manded in  the  inspiration  of  the  moment, 
delving  into  a  drawer  for  paper  and  pencil. 
"Couldn't  you  draw  the  red  flower  on  the  sill, 

[68] 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  "GENIUS" 

or  a  tree,  perhaps,  or  the  little  sparrow  on 
the  woodpile?  Draw  something  you  see,  or 
remember." 

But  the  illy  proportioned  egg  cradles  and 
weird  and  unrecognizable  cat  funerals  that 
Elizabeth  Anne  achieved  after  an  hour's  la- 
borious and  accommodating  effort  would  have 
disabused  the  most  sanguine  mind  on  this  sub- 
ject. Still,  she  liked  the  idea  of  paper  and 
pencil,  which  appealed  to  her  dignity,  and 
being  already  familiar  with  her  letters,  ac- 
cording to  the  educational  mode  of  procedure 
then  in  vogue,  she  began  presently,  since  no 
livelier  form  of  diversion  offered  itself,  to  set 
them  down,  carefully  and  philosophically, 
copying  from  her  alphabet  blocks,  and  beg- 
ging aid  in  every  difficulty. 

Of  course  Caroline  spared  no  pains,  but 
the  arrival  at  this  time  of  a  second  child,  a 
son,  in  the  family,  threw  the  small  daughter 
for  the  time  being  on  her  own  resources, 
educationally  and  otherwise.  She  sulked  fit- 
fully at  first,  keeping  away  from  her  mother's 
room  with  a  feeling  of  distrust  toward  one 

[69] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

who  would  thus  without  warning  bring  in  a 
stranger  to  supplant  her. 

But  when,  in  the  course  of  her  aimless 
wanderings  about  the  house,  she  came  upon  a 
little  wriggling  flannel  -  wrapped  bundle 
against  the  thin  pink  covering  of  her  own 
bed,  she  retraced  her  steps,  making  a  wide 
detour  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  the  rein- 
stated Marthy's  reckless  broom  and  its  ac- 
companying cloud  of  dust,  and  clambered  up 
cautiously  in  the  darkened  room  beside  the 
invalid. 

"Mother,"  she  said  forgivingly  with  the 
feeling  of  one  in  the  same  condemnation,  "we 
couldn't  help  it,  could  we?  There — there's 
one  of  'em  in  my  bed,  too." 

Being  seized  from  behind  at  this  moment 
in  Marthy's  unyielding  grip,  and  forbidden 
every  part  of  the  house  but  the  sitting  room, 
she  remained  under  the  delusion  the  entire 
day,  and  sat  stiffly  and  importantly,  refusing 
her  blocks  and  evidently  debating  with  her- 
self a  proper  course  of  action. 

Aunt  Sarah,  observing  her  dejection,  and 
feeling  sorry  for  her  in  her  brusque  way,  took 

[70] 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  "GENIUS" 

time  to  rush  in  sympathetically  with  several 
new  and  gorgeous  picture  and  ABC  books 
for  her,  but  having  glanced  them  through, 
she  returned  them  with  a  deep  and  superior 
elder  sister  sigh  to  their  wrappings. 

"They  will  do  for  the — the  babies  or  Mer- 
cedes," she  said  loftily,  and  betook  herself  to 
the  town  newspaper,  the  advertising  section 
of  which,  appearing  in  large  letters,  was  the 
only  part  at  all  accessible  to  her. 

Prominent  among  the  advertisements,  and 
so  strikingly  arranged  that  her  eye  invariably 
fell  upon  it,  was  the  legend  "R.  S.  Kail, 
clothier."  It  was  a  rebus  to  which  she  deter- 
mined to  find  the  solution. 

"K-a-i-1,"  she  spelled  aloud  difficultly  at 
dinner,  the  paper  beside  her  bowl  of  bread 
and  milk,  as  was  David's  habit  at  meals  in  his 
busy  seasons.  "What  does  that  spell,  father?" 

"Kail,"  said  David  briefly  between  the 
finishing  mouthfuls  of  his  hastily  swallowed 
pudding. 

"C-1-o-t-h,"  pursued  the  besieger  after  an 
interval,  her  spoon  poised  studiously  in  mid- 
air. 

[71] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

"Cloth,"  was  the  patient  response  as  the 
besieged  arose  with  an  eye  on  the  clock,  and 
pushed  back  his  chair. 

"-i-e-r,"  almost  shouted  the  young  torment, 
warming  to  her  subject. 

"Ear,"  said  David  absently,  reaching  for 
his  hat. 

He  failed  to  get  the  connection  of  ideas, 
however,  until  later  in  the  day  when  Mr. 
Kail  himself  chanced  to  drop  in  on  a  matter 
of  business.  Elizabeth  Anne,  only  slightly 
acquainted  with  the  caller,  eyed  him  furtively 
as  he  entered,  and  having  waited  until  the 
conversation  had  passed  the  stiff  and  intro- 
ductory stage,  even  managed  to  slip  behind 
his  chair  to  secure  a  rear  view.  Not  in  vain 
had  a  hint  of  the  perfidy  of  the  outer  world 
been  offered  her. 

"Why,  Mr.  Kail,"  she  observed  involun- 
tarily, in  the  disappointed  tones  of  the 
cheated,  "both  your  ears  are  only  skin,  any- 
how." 

Of  course  explanations  were  in  order,  and 
it  became  necessary  to  produce  the  news- 
paper in  corroboration  of  the  fraud.  Where- 

[72] 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  "GENIUS" 

upon  Mr.  Kail  plead  guilty  with  a  laugh, 
presented  his  accuser  with  ten  cents  in  silver, 
and  begged  for  a  curl,  which,  in  sudden  grati- 
tude she  tugged  at  till  the  tears  overflowed 
embarrassingly. 

It  was  all  that  could  be  expected  of  such 
teaching,  deplored  Caroline,  who  in  the  course 
of  several  days  was  restored  to  her  domain, 
and  she  redoubled  her  efforts  to  make  up  for 
lost  time,  while  the  newcomer  at  her  breast, 
paying  the  penalty  of  being  a  second  child, 
passed  through  the  initial  stages  of  his  career, 
even  to  the  point  of  receiving  his  name 
"Robert"  for  a  deceased  cousin  of  the  Lang- 
dons,  with  only  the  mildest  passing  comment 
of  the  interested. 

"  'Bade  an'  he's  th'  bye,"  said  Mrs.  O'Hara 
indefinitely. 

"Hain't  he  th'  cunnin'  little  man  critter?" 
wheezed  Mittie  Peeler  admiringly. 

"I've  felt  him  over,"  said  Grandma  Prouty 
with  finality,  "an'  if  he  ain't  tougher  in  his 
construction  'n  tripe  fried  twicest,  ye  kin  set 
me  down  fer  a  shore  'nough  empty  head!" 

Elizabeth   Anne,    in   time   growing   recon- 

[73] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

ciled  to  the  object  of  this  attention,  squatted 
before  him  on  the  floor  where  he  lay,  moist- 
eyed,  and  blinkingly  absorbed  in  his  array  of 
fat  toes,  and  read  aloud  to  him  elevatingly 
from  Belle  O'Hara's  rejected  Primer,  "Dog, 
a  dog.  Ball,  a  ball."  (There  were  other  less 
conventional  things  in  Belle's  unsteady  script, 
such  as,  "If  my  name  you  do  not  see,  look  on 
page  103,"  and  its  sequel,  "There,  fool,  what 
do  you  see?"  but  these  as  yet  baffled  the 
efforts  of  its  curious  present  owner.) 

The  printed  letters  and  their  sounds,  albeit, 
she  found  comparatively  easy  sailing,  and  so 
made  rapid  strides  in  the  battered  little  book, 
though  the  subject  of  school  had  not  been 
broached  to  her  as  an  impetus,  Caroline  be- 
ing wary  of  the  touch  of  the  outside  world, 
and  continually  postponing  the  time  when  it 
needs  must  hold  undisputed  sway.  Never- 
theless in  this  she  feared  a  little  for  her  own 
wisdom  and  discussed  the  matter,  pro  and 
con,  with  Aunt  Sarah  in  the  long  evenings 
when  the  children  having  been  put  to  bed, 
were  presumably  asleep. 

It  was  by  reason  of  these  discussions  and 

[74] 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  "GENIUS" 

periods  of  doubt  that  Elizabeth  Anne  reached 
the  ninth  year  of  her  age  before  the  door 
of  the  First  Reader  classroom  opened  to  her 
— a  most  extraordinary  circumstance  in  Cull 
Prairie,  and  one  that  created  so  much  neigh- 
borhood comment  that,  as  a  concession  to 
public  opinion,  the  chubby  brother,  who  had 
grown  into  a  sturdy,  independent  five  year 
old  with  a  slow,  teasing  smile  and  a  con- 
spicuous lack  of  incisors,  was  permitted  to 
accompany  her  to  enter  the  Primer  Class  in 
the  room  adjoining. 

A'  certain  Miss  Barlow,  a  strict  but  kindly, 
middle-aged  woman  with  a  broad,  plain,  hairy 
face,  an  air  of  practicability,  and  a  keen  in- 
terest in  all  problems  pedagogical,  was  at  the 
head  of  the  school.  She  encountered  the  two 
children  in  the  hallway  on  the  morning  of 
their  arrival,  and  smiled  a  welcome. 

"I  hope  you  will  prove  good  children,"  she 
said  in  stereotyped  phrase  as  was  her  habit, 
"and  learn  your  lessons  without  making  any 
trouble." 

Elizabeth    Anne    shifted    her    new    First 

[75] 


THE  GENIUS  OF   ELIZABETH  ANNE 

Reader   under   her   arm,    and   gazed   at   the 
speaker  frankly. 

"I  don't  b'leeve  I'll  make  very  much 
trouble,"  she  said  simply,  "  'cause  I'm  a — a 
genius,  an'  I 'mi  quick,  but  I  don't  know  about 
poor  Robert,"  with  a  protecting  arm  about 
his  neck,  and  a  dubious  sidewise  glance  in  his 
direction,  "you  see  he's  just  a  common  stick, 
an',"  her  voice  sinking  to  a  solemn  under- 
tone, "an'  Aunt  Sarah's  afraid  he  takes  after 
grandmother  Stratman." 

Miss  Barlow  pursed  up  her  lips  and  stared. 
Here  was  a  pedagogical  problem  with  a  ven- 
geance. 

"Little  girl,"  she  said  primly  at  length, 
pushing  up  her  spectacles  for  a  better  view, 
"I  do  not  approve  of  children  who  boast." 

And  the  childish  braggart,  serenely  uncon- 
scious of  herself  up  to  that  moment,  grew 
deeply  scarlet  and  was  only  deterred  from 
bolting  through  the  outer  door  by  the  timely 
appearance  and  soothing  words  of  the  First 
Reader  teacher,  who  resembled  nothing  so 
much  as  a  clucking  Plymouth  Rock  hen, 

[76] 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  "GENIUS" 

and  who  took  the  new  arrivals  consolingly 
under  her  wing. 

So  the  day  was  saved  for  Elizabeth  Anne, 
and  she  was  duly  installed  in  seat  Number 
Eleven,  while  Robert  was  led  into  the  ad- 
joining Primer  Class  as  a  sheep  before  his 
shearers  dumb. 

Now  across  the  aisle  from  Seat  Number 
Eleven  sat  a  boy  with  hair  so  red  that  one 
could  not  but  marvel  how  his  corner  of  the 
room  failed  to  burst  into  flames.  For  the 
rest  (he  had  been  a  neglected  baby,  being 
one  of  many)  he  had  a  scar  on  his  chin  and 
another  on  his  nose,  which  gave  him  the 
general  appearance  of  the  late  Bogey,  the 
scraggy  cat. 

But  his  mottled  brown  eyes  were  large  and 
friendly,  and  they  studied  Elizabeth  Anne,  as 
she  dropped  into  her  place,  with  open  in- 
terest, from  the  wabbly  red  bows  at  each  side 
of  her  head,  down  the  fresh  blue-checked 
gingham  apron  to  the  squeaky  soles  of  her 
brand-new  shoes. 

"Here,"  he  whispered  enticingly,  the  ses- 
sion having  begun,  "here,  take  that." 

[77] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

He  thrust  into  her  hand  a  white  candy 
heart  from  which  he  had  already  sucked  the 
pristine  sweetness  and  the  carmine  lettered 
sentiment.  Some  of  the  latter  had  probably 
been  absorbed  into  his  system  along  with  the 
sugar,  for  across  the  smeary  white  surface  he 
had  supplied  the  penciled  inscription,  "Luv 
me." 

The  surprised  recipient  deciphered  it  and 
sat  as  one  spellbound.  Then  she  put  her 
head  down  on  the  desk  and  began  to  sob.  It 
could  never  be  said  of  Elizabeth  Anne  that 
she  did  not  take  life  seriously. 

"There,  there,"  insisted  the  hen-like  teacher 
over  and  over  with  clucking  repetition,  "that 
will  do,  that  will  do." 

This  failing  to  quell  the  disturbance  or  to 
bring  about  any  reasonable  explanation,  the 
disconsolate  one  remained  in  at  recess,  and 
Miss  Barlow  was  sent  for.  For  her  inspec- 
tion at  last  the  crude  and  sticky  token  was 
shoved  forward  on  the  desk. 

"He — he  gave  it  to  me,"  sobbed  Elizabeth 
Anne,  "but — but  I  don't  know  how  to  love 

[78] 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  "  GENIUS  " 

him."  And  her  slim  shoulders  began  to 
shake  anew. 

Miss  Barlow  stepped  back  stiffly  and  took 
a  puzzled  turn  across  the  room.  Then  she 
drew  herself  up  with  authority  and  gave 
orders  for  an  immediate  change  of  seat. 

"I  should  hope  not,"  she  said  with  em- 
phasis, taking  up  the  offending  heart  gin- 
gerly with  a  bit  of  paper,  and  dropping  it 
into  the  nearest  waste-basket.  "I  should  hope 
not  indeed!" 


[79] 


ADVENTURES  AT  SCHOOL  AND 
ELSEWHERE 


V 

ADVENTURES  AT   SCHOOL  AND 
ELSEWHERE 

But  the  end  was  still  afield.  There  was  a 
terror  in  Miss  Barlow's  school — a  terror  that 
recurred  with  painful  frequency,  and  balked 
not  a  whit  at  tears. 

The  new  addition  to  the  First  Reader  Class 
was  extremely  relieved  to  discover  that  it  was 
confined  entirely  to  pupils  who  failed  to  arrive 
on  time.  The  offender  was  elevated  on  a 
stool  in  front  of  his  classmates  and  every  small 
scornful  forefinger  in  the  room  was  raised  and 
pointed  waveringly  at  him  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  the  following  doggerel  in  a  shrill  rack- 
ing key: 

"  Five  minutes  late,  when  school  has  begun. 
What  are  rules  for,  if  you  break  every  one? 
Just  as  the  scholars  are  seated  and  quiet, 
You  hurry  in  with  disturbance  and  riot. 
Why  do  you  loiter  so  long  by  the  way? 
All  of  the  classes  are  formed  for  the  day  — 
Hurry  and  pick  up  your  reader  and  slate 
There's  room  at  the  foot  for  the  scholar  that's  late." 
[83] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

So  devout  was  the  hope  of  Elizabeth  Anne 
that  this  appalling  disgrace  might  pass  her 
family  by,  that  she  awoke  at  unseasonable 
hours  in  the  morning,  aroused  Robert  (who 
roared  like  a  megatherium  when  the  occasion 
demanded)  and  otherwise  disturbed  the  house- 
hold peace,  until  David  in  self-defence  dabbled 
in  the  family  discipline,  after  which  his  de- 
fenceless son  bore  the  burden  alone,  for  once 
outside  he  was  hurried  along  on  his  short,  fat 
legs  till  the  landscape  became  a  mere  blur. 

As  it  was  necessary  in  the  trip  to  and  from 
school  to  cross  the  railroad  tracks  which 
stretched  newly  across  the  growing  village,  the 
disgrace  was  sometimes  avoided  at  the  immi- 
nent peril  of  life  and  limb. 

Belle  O'Hara,  who  was  in  the  Third  Reader 
Class,  and  again  much  in  evidence,  was  usually 
in  the  vanguard  of  the  oncoming  groups. 
"Don't  lave  no  mazely  owld  engin'  shkin  yez 
out,"  was  her  slogan,  "an'  shneak  in  't  lasht 
t'  foind  th'  hull  low  thribe  pointin'  at  yez  loike 
ye  was  a  thafe  in  th'  noight.  Faith  'n  it's 
mesilf  'u'd  rather  take  a  bastin'  anny  day." 

A  real  danger  was  merely  a  fillip  to  the 

[84] 


AT  SCHOOL  AND  ELSEWHERE 

spirits  of  the  redoubtable  Belle,  but  many  and 
varied  were  the  depressing  dream  horrors  that 
sprang  up  about  her  every-day  path,  chief 
among  them  th'  fiery  claw-futted  griffin  o' 
McCarty's  marsh,  th'  goggle-eyed  elvies  o'  th' 
Bogs,  and  th'  wee  owld  gint  o'  the  say,  to 
which  a  pitiful  mummy  of  a  man,  basking 
daily  in  the  thin,  late  autumn  sun,  lent  color. 

The  utter  absence  of  even  an  apology  for  a 
"say,"  the  Prairie  being  a  "dry"  town  in  every 
sense  of  the  word,  in  nowise  disconcerted  this 
spinner  of  tales.  'Tis  foine  'n  innocent  th' 
owld  man  does  be  lukin',  sittin'  there  wid  th' 
shiny  brown  fists  av'  'im  atop  av  his  stick.  But 
luk  out,"  she  was  wont  to  whisper  sagely. 
"Give  'im  s'  much  as  the  spheck  av  a  chance, 
an'  he'll  hop  forninst  ye,  thwist  yez  about  in 
the  twinklin'  av  an  eye,  an'  climb  up  yer  back 
wid  the  aise  av  a  cat.  An'  yez'll  not  be  gittin' 
rid  av  'im  s'  handy  nayther,  f'r  he'll  sthick  an' 
sthick  the  longest  day  ye  live,  be  all  the  saints 
o'  howly  hiven." 

Her  followers  rallied  a  little  closer  at  this, 
and  some  of  the  youngest  would  gladly  have 
hidden  their  faces  in  her  skirts  had  they  dared. 

[85] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

Not  that  there  were  any  mollycoddles 
among  them.  A  mollycoddle  would  not  have 
been  tolerated  north  of  the  railroad  tracks, 
which  had  become  a  line  of  social  demarcation 
in  Cull  Prairie,  the  "effete  aristocracy"  being 
well  to  the  south. 

"Sthand  on  yer  own  fate,"  besought  Belle 
of  the  younger  element,  of  which  she  was  the 
leading  spirit,  and  she  jibed  and  scolded  and 
cajoled  them  and  dubbed  them  with  absurd 
nicknames  according  to  her  whim. 

There  was  "Sthicky"  for  his  stupidity,  and 
"Tar-r  Babby"  for  the  owner  of  a  queer  an- 
gular little  face  from  which  it  was  impossible 
to  remove  the  grime;  there  was  "Lanthern"  for 
the  red-headed  boy;  there  was  "Shquint"  for 
"Tar-r  Babby's"  afflicted  elder  sister,  and 
"Squatch"  for  the  baby  of  the  crew  who  fre- 
quently distinguished  himself  by  falling  in  the 
mud. 

None  might  safely  rebel,  and  none  were 
spared.  As  the  leader  grew  to  feel  her  power, 
she  began,  too,  to  play  on  the  various  weak- 
nesses she  found;  on  the  vanity  of  black-eyed 

[86] 


AT  SCHOOL  AND  ELSEWHERE 

Joy,  the  timidity  of  over-grown  Terrence,  the 
boundless  credulity  of  Elizabeth  Anne. 

"Shure  there's  nowhere  so  swate  a  draught 
as  ditch  water,  though  'tis  few  there  be  that's 
afther  knowin'  it,"  she  was  wont  to  coax  per- 
suasively on  a  clearing  morning  after  a  rain- 
swept night,  sitting  on  her  knees  at  the  road- 
side ditch,  making  adroit  feints  at  drinking 
from  a  battered  cup,  "  'tis  th'  sthuff  that  puts 
th'  magic  eye  into  ye,  too,"  with  a  slow  wink, 
"so's  ye  c'n  see  ev'ry thing  ye  want  to,  t'  th'  in- 
side wurrkin's  o'  folkses'  stummicks." 

And  Elizabeth  Anne,  under  pressure  of  an 
elfish  guiding  hand,  bent  her  head  down,  down 
to  the  muddy  trickling  water,  only  to  have  her 
courage  fail  her  at  the  critical  moment  to  the 
seeming  disgust  of  the  temptress,  who  laughed 
in  her  sleeve,  and  promptly  devised  new  tests 
for  her  victim,  setting  her,  on  penalty  of  dire 
happenings,  to  curl  the  hair  of  impatient 
Snooty's  tail,  to  gather  a  row  of  white  dande- 
lion "balls"  without  scattering  the  "fluff,"  to 
watch  until  the  heavy  schoolroom  dipper 
stirred  of  its  own  accord  on  the  wall,  and  fi- 
nally on  a  literal  search  for  a  needle  in  a  straw- 

[87] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

stack,  the  needle  being  supposedly  of  gold,  and 
lost  by  a  fairy,  and  the  strawstack  being,  alas, 
the  property  of  "th'  wee  owld  gint  o'  th'  say." 

At  this,  the  crucial  test,  however,  the  trust- 
ing worm  turned,  so  far  as  it  dared,  and  ac- 
cepted the  doubtfully  preferred  companion- 
ship of  one  Minnie  Bird,  a  fat,  white-faced, 
weak-voiced  little  denizen  of  the  South  Side, 
with  a  soul  like  a  bit  of  thistledown. 

And  still  there  seemed  something  to  be 
desired. 

Minnie  Bird,  it  soon  came  to  light,  was  ob- 
sessed. Her  one  aim,  her  single  desire  in  life, 
was  to  secure  a  part  in  a  Fan  Drill  which  was 
to  be  a  feature  of  a  prospective  Sunday-school 
entertainment,  and  every  time  she  opened  her 
mouth,  it  was  to  say  "fan"  or  "my  blue  fan" 
or  "my  Mommah  says  my  fan,"  until  the  effect 
was  truly  bewildering. 

More,  she  very  soon  betrayed  unmistakably 
her  real  reason  for  annexing  Elizabeth  Anne, 
whom  she  openly  rated  beneath  her  in  the 
matter  of  social  status,  which  was  coming  to 
be  of  some  little  moment  in  awakening  Cull 
Prairie. 

[88] 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 


VI 
LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

It  was  during  the  noon  intermission  of  the 
second  day  of  Elizabeth  Anne's  intimacy  with 
Minnie  Bird  that  Minnie  said,  "I  wanted 
somebody  to  go  to  Miss  Wade's  with  me,  an' 
I've  begged  an'  begged  Lucile,  'til  she  says 
she's  tired  t'  death  of  it.  You  see  Miss  Wade 
has  charge  of  the  Drill,  an'  I  b'leeve  she'd  give 
me  a  part  if  I  coaxed  her.  .  .  .  Let's  go  now," 
with  a  sudden  eager  breath.  .  .  .  "Never  mind 
your  lunch,"  as  her  companion  would  have 
strayed  hungrily  in  the  cloakroom  where  the 
row  of  waiting  lunch  pails  reposed,  "we'll  get 
the  part  first,  and  eat  afterward." 

And  Elizabeth  Anne  found  herself  drawn 
outside,  and  whisked  along  protestingly  to- 
ward Main  Street,  where  Miss  Wade  (none 
other  than  the  Sunday-school  teacher  who  had 
dispensed  the  "half"  eggs)  kept  a  miniature 
millinery  store. 

The  lady,  who  was  busy  with  a  wordy  and 

[91] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

flaw-picking  customer,  looked  up  with  some 
vexation  at  their  flushed  and  jangling  en- 
trance. She  aimed  to  be  a  zealous,  worthy 
worker,  and  she  seriously  believed  that  she 
loved  children,  but  she  did  not  intend  to  be 
annoyed  by  them  every  hour  of  the  day. 

"Yes,  ah  yes,"  she  said  with  purposeful  deaf 
vagueness,  the  palm  of  one  hand  on  her  thin 
breast  and  the  other  scooping  wing-like  her 
deaf  ear.  "Step  into  the  parlor,  please,"  ner- 
vously opening  a  door  behind  her  after  fum- 
bling some  moments  with  the  lock,  "and  re- 
main until  I  have  time  to  attend  to  you." 

So  into  the  tiny,  airless  parlor  the  two 
stepped,  perforce,  and — remained.  The  bland 
little  porcelain  clock  on  the  shelf  over  the  un- 
yielding sofa  on  which  they  sat  struck  the 
quarter  hour,  then  the  half,  and  ticked  un- 
feelingly on. 

"She's  f ergot  us,"  whispered  Elizabeth 
Anne  in  a  tremor,  "I'm  going."  "Don't, 
please  don't,"  begged  Minnie,  the  obsessed,  in 
passionate  answering  whisper,  "I  might  just 
miss  my  chance !" 

Main  Street,  in  such  dim  portion  of  it  as 

[92] 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS 

was  visible  from  the  voluminously  draped  win- 
dow, bustled  crudely  on.  At  one  end  of  it, 
Cad  Prouty,  the  blacksmith,  kept  up  the  clear, 
steady  klink,  klink,  klink  of  his  hammer ;  at  the 
other,  a  railroad  engine  puffed  and  wheezed, 
and  sent  up  great,  white,  streamy  clouds.  In 
the  close  room  there  was  only  silence,  and  two 
pairs  of  childish  legs,  an  over-fat  and  a  pipe- 
stem  pair,  dangling  with  infinite  weariness 
from  off  the  hard  sofa. 

After  many  moments  their  owners  grew  a 
little  bolder,  and  slipped  down  doubtfully,  and 
examined  at  close  range  the  trio  of  heavily- 
framed  portraits  on  the  staring  white  wall  op- 
posite— the  sombre-looking  grandmother  with 
the  thick-set  neck  and  the  sagging  earrings; 
the  little  buffoon  of  a  grandfather  with  his 
smirk,  his  low,  white  collar  and  his  sparse 
whiskers;  the  stately  uncle  with  his  curly  hair 
and  his  smug  self-complacence. 

Again,  they  went  a  little  further,  and 
crooked  their  fingers  at  the  pale-hued  canary 
dozing  on  the  floor  of  his  cage  in  a  stray  streak 
of  sunlight.  But  at  every  slight  sound  or 
movement  in  the  adjoining  room,  they  crept 

[93] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

back  hastily,  and  smoothed  their  skirts  and 
folded  their  hands  again  precisely  in  their 
laps. 

At  last,  after  what  seemed  an  interminable 
length  of  time,  the  door  really  opened,  and 
Miss  Wade  appeared  like  a  furtive  apparition, 
her  thin  gray  hair  awry  on  her  puzzled  brow, 
her  long,  withered,  bluish  fingers  lightly 
clasped  before  her. 

"Well!"  she  said  with  the  air  of  one  who 
awakens  from  a  trance,  "well !"  The  hands  of 
the  clock  now  pointed  to  ten  minutes  of  one, 
the  opening  hour  of  the  afternoon  session. 
"Did  you  wish  to  see  me?"  said  Miss  Wade 
with  her  far-away,  spirit-like  smile. 

"We  haven't  had  our  lunch,"  cried  Eliza- 
beth Anne  irrelevantly,  forgetting  herself,  and 
speaking  with  such  vehemence  that  the  words 
actually  carried,  while  Minnie  sat  gasping 
with  reddening  lids  and  swelling  throat. 

"Well,  well,"  repeated  their  hostess,  who 
breakfasted  lightly  at  ten,  and  lunched  still 
more  lightly  at  two,  and  who  would  have  seen 
no  occasion  to  alter  the  Persian  and  Median 
fixity  of  her  household  regulations  to  the  ex- 

[94] 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS 

tent  of  opening  her  cupboard  between  meals 
had  a  winged  delegation  of  the  First  Order  of 
Cherubim  descended  upon  her  in  quest  of  food. 
"You  had  better  make  haste  to  return,  then, 
had  you  not?  Perhaps  you  will  come  to  see 
me  another  time?"  still  with  the  engaging  and 
hazy  smile. 

"She  was  polite,"  said  Minnie  dazedly,  re- 
covering her  voice  when  they  reached  the 
street,  "but  she  put  us  right  out." 

"And  we  haven't  had  our  lunch,"  reiterated 
Elizabeth  Anne,  becoming  obsessed  in  her 
turn,  "and  now,  now/'  desperately,  "I'm 
starving  without  a  pickle." 

"  'Tis  all  ye  c'd  expict  av  Fon  Minnie," 
commented  Belle  O'Hara  to  the  victim,  when 
the  story,  as  such  stories  will,  leaked  out. 
"  'Dade  'n  anither  such  a  ninny  ye'd  be  slow 
in  findin',  widout  'twas  th'  loikes  av  yersilf." 

Elizabeth  Anne  hung  her  head  as  she  had 
in  the  earlier  days  of  Belle's  thrusts.  Perhaps 
Belle  was  right.  It  was  not  impossible  that 
she  was  a  ninny.  She  did  not  know,  upon  re- 
flection, what  term  would  best  apply  to  her. 
She  only  knew  dimly  that  she  was  facing  a 

[95] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

new  regime,  and  that  the  only  way  to  deter- 
mine whither  a  given  act  might  lead  was  to 
perform  the  act,  and  that  then  it  was  too  late 
to  retrieve. 

But  it  would  not  all  have  been  quite  so  per- 
plexing, perhaps,  but  for  the  new  regime's 
spreading  itself  even  to  her  own  roof-tree, 
than  which,  as  a  general  thing,  an  outer  revo- 
lution is  to  be  preferred. 

The  new,  inner  order  of  things  was  epochal. 
It  began  with  the  advent  of  tiny  Ruth.  ( She 
had  a  scant  four  pounds  to  her  credit,  and  no- 
body ever  called  her  anything  but  tiny,  but  it 
is  not  to  be  imagined  that  her  significance  was 
'in  proportion  to  her  size.)  She  brought  a 
strained  and  uncomfortable  hush  in  her  royal 
train,  to  say  nothing  of  a  strange,  bearded 
city  doctor  and  a  light-stepping,  important 
nurse  with  a  white  cap. 

To  come  home  now  was  to  enter  humbly  by 
the  back  way,  to  find  Aunt  Sarah  scurrying 
about  the  big,  bare,  ramshackle  kitchen  like  a 
fugitive  mouse,  lighting  the  fire,  "setting  the 
buckwheats,"  and  attempting  to  drive  the  im- 
perturbable Robert  from  the  depleted  cooky 

[96] 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS 

jar  in  a  breath.  Or  perhaps  "Grandma" 
Prouty  and  Mittie  Peeler  were  in  possession 
of  the  ominously  silent  and  hastily  tidied  room, 
sitting  behind  the  cook-stove  in  unusually  close 
proximity,  and  then  the  gloom  thickened  till 
it  draped  the  walls  like  visible  hangings. 

"Nosiree,"  was  "Grandma"  Prouty's  ver- 
dict given  portentously  behind  her  knotty  little 
hand,  "thar  hain't  no  tellin'  how  it'll  come  out. 
No  sir,  thar  hain't.  'Twould  be  awful  fer  'er 
t'  be  tuk  with  them  pore  little  younguns  ahang- 
in'  onto  'er  now,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Twould  that,"  mournfully  acquiesced  the 
obedient  Mittie,  fetching  a  heart-breaking  sigh 
by  installments  from  the  depths  of  her  person, 
and  dabbing  at  her  eyes  with  her  ruffled  "com- 
pany" apron. 

"Ah  g'wan  ye  blitherin'  pair  av  human 
ghrave  sthones,"  amiably  growled  the  ap- 
proaching Maggie  O'Hara,  who  never  suf- 
fered a  lament  to  go  unscathed  and  who  her- 
self would  have  laughed  gamely,  and  danced 
a  few  clumsy  and  defiant  waltz  steps,  had  the 
chief  executioner  had  her  by  the  hand  to  lead 
her  to  the  block. 

[97] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

Maggie  O'Hara  was  the  welcome  oasis  in 
the  desert  of  these  days.  "Away  wid  yer  long 
faces,"  was  her  contemptuous  command  to  the 
assembled  supper  group.  "Shure  th'  big 
troubles  pass  ye  by  loike  they  niver  knowed  ye, 
an'  'tis  out  ye  go  wid  a  herrin-net  huntin'  f 'r 
th'  shmall  wans.  'Tis  loike  as  if,  havin'  found 
a  gold-mine  in  me  back  yard,  I  sh'd  throuble 
mesilf  f'r  th'  color  av  Teague's  moustache,  th' 
which  does  be  shure  a  sorry  match  f'r  th'  hair 
av  'im  entoirely." 

It  was  she  who  coaxed  back  the  first  coy 
color  into  the  lips  of  the  sick  woman,  and  after 
the  departure  of  the  nurse  carried  her  about 
the  room  as  if  she  had  been  a  feather-weight. 
It  was  she,  too,  who  smoothed  out  the  first 
little  crease  in  her  forehead  that  threatened  to 
be  permanent,  and  demanded  the  reason  for 
its  existence. 

"Gurrl,  gurrl,"  she  admonished  soberly, 
"ye've  no  more  rasin  f'r  throublin'  yer  hid  than 
a  linnet  in  a  nest." 

Caroline  smiled  faintly  at  this,  and  a  little 
afraid  of  Maggie's  penetration,  slipped  the 

[98] 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS 

home  letter  over  which  she  had  been  brooding 
shamefacedly  under  her  pillow. 

The  unnatural  gulf  which  existed  between 
her  mother  and  herself  had  given  her  no  more 
than  an  undefined  uneasiness  before  her  mar- 
riage. Viewed  at  a  distance,  it  had  become 
paradoxically  a  thing  of  real  regret,  though 
changed  in  no  wise  save  that  now  a  definite 
reason  might  be  ascribed  to  it.  The  home  let- 
ters had  come  with  conscientious  fortnightly 
precision,  since  the  occasion  of  Grandmother 
Stratman's  first  visit,  and  were  answered  in 
kind,  precisely.  The  one  under  the  pillow  con- 
tained a  note  of  special  interest.  It  announced 
that  the  writer  in  consideration  of  the  stress  of 
circumstances,  having  duly  considered  the 
matter,  would  arrive  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days  to  remain  so  long  as  she  seemed  to  be 
needed. 

She  appeared  at  mid-week,  and  incidentally 
the  new  order  of  things  for  the  youthful  Lang- 
dons  became  climacteric.  Elizabeth  Anne's 
beloved  stubby  pencil  and  bulky  pile  of  scrib- 
blings  wherewith  she  beguiled  her  leisure  were 
consigned  at  once  to  the  waste  paper  box;  the 

[99] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  ELIZABETH  ANNE 

periodically  resurrected  Mercedes,  smiling 
freshly  in  her  corner,  was  hastened  into  a 
second  period  of  oblivion;  and  Snowball,  the 
family  cat,  successor  to  Bogey,  disappeared  at 
once  for  more  congenial  fields. 

There  was,  moreover,  a  long  and  detailed 
code  of  manners  at  every  meal,  which  increased 
the  need  of  haste  schoolward,  and  never  before 
had  one's  face  and  neck  demanded  such  pro- 
longed and  painful  scrubbing. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  straining  her  eyes  after 
school  hours  over  a  seemingly  endless  supply 
of  patchwork  which  she  decorated  liberally 
with  the  blood  of  her  ringers  when  the  needle 
mistakenly  attacked  her  instead  of  the  fabric, 
sighed  heavily  in  view  of  these  things  and 
wiped  off  now  and  then  a  surreptitious  tear. 

"How  long  will  it  last,  mother?"  she  man- 
aged after  a  time  to  whisper  forlornly,  steal- 
ing into  Caroline's  bedroom  under  cover  of 
darkness  and  making  her  way  with  outflung 
arms  to  the  bed. 

The  little  dusk-hung  room  was  quite  as  clear 
to  her  as  it  would  have  been  in  daylight,  this 
low-ceiled  room  in  which  she  had  been  born, 

[100] 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS 

and  which  she  needs  must  always  see  for  the 
loving  thought  of  her  it  seemed  always  to  hold. 
Cheap-floored,  rough-plastered,  and  un- 
adorned save  for  a  few  paltry  trifles — the 
serious-visaged  St.  Anthony  over  the  box- 
dresser,  the  red  heart  pincushion  with  its 
bristling  rows  of  rusty  pins,  the  tiny  china 
vase  with  its  single  dried  sweet-swelling  laven- 
der spray — it  was  yet  worth  a  king's  ransom. 
A  warm,  groping  hand  came  out  toward  her 
on  the  coverlet,  a  hand  that  was  only  a  dim 
moving  thing  in  the  shadows  and  yet  that  she 
did  not  need  to  see. 

"What?"  asked  a  patient  voice  from  the 
whiteness  of  the  pillow. 

A  swift  feeling  of  delicacy  swept  the  soul 
of  Elizabeth  Anne.  "Oh,  school  an' — an' 
ev'ry  thing,"  she  answered  jerkily,  her  throat 
swelling  with  the  evasion. 

Let  it  be  here  related  of  Caroline  that,  re- 
gardless of  her  own  aches  and  worries,  she 
never  failed  a  child  in  trouble.  She  smoothed 
the  crumpled  folds  of  the  gingham  apron 
soothingly;  she  drew  the  bent  beribboned  head 
quite  down  to  her  breast,  and  let  her  soft  fin- 

[101] 


THE   GENIUS   OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

gers  stray  for  comfort  along  the  girlish  cheek 
as  though  spelling  a  charm  in  silent  language 
that  should  keep  away  every  shadow  of  un- 
pleasantness. 

"Nothing  lasts  very  long,  Betty,"  she  said 
simply,  "and  everything,  remember  every- 
thing, depends  upon  how  well  you  do  your 
work." 

Which  revelation  sent  the  young  questioner 
to  her  reader  and  slate  with  such  phenomenal 
application  in  the  succeeding  days  as  to  bring 
her  very  soon  into  the  limelight.  "Unusual 
diligence,"  "very  faithful,"  "advanced  some- 
what beyond  the  grade,"  were  some  of  the 
strange  phrases  that  drifted  to  her  ears  when 
Miss  Barlow  and  the  First  Reader  Teacher 
stood  beside  her  desk.  And  then  it  was  made 
known  to  her  that  she  was  to  be  promoted  with 
the  "Division  that  was  to  pass  into  the  Second 
Reader  room,"  though  that  this  was  an  occa- 
sion for  rejoicing  she  learned  only  from  the 
subdued  and  blissful  squirming  of  the  pro- 
moted "Division" — a  mode  of  felicitation 
which  she  unquestioningly  adopted,  swaying 

[102] 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS 

her  slim  little  length  in  mock  joy  like  a  reed 
in  the  wind. 

"Take  care,"  cautioned  Belle  O'Hara,  mys- 
teriously wagging  her  tousled  head,  when  she 
heard  the  news,  "luck  comes,  an'  thin  agin  it 
goes!  Oi  saw  a  Banshee  th'  morn,  sittin'  o'er 
yer^  dure,  an'  sez  Oi  t'  her  wid  me  foinest 
shmirk,  'Th'  top  o'  th'  mornin'  t'  yez,'  sez  Oi, 
'an'  phwat  now?'  an'  sez  she  t'  me,  shmirkin' 
back,  she  sez,  'All  thim  that  has  no  toime  t' 
wait  does  be  wilcome  t'  run  ahid.  'Tis  no  shkin 
off 'm  yer  nose,  anyhow,'  she  sez,  'hav  yez  got 
that  down  in  yer  poipe  f'r  shmokin'?' ' 

That  the  Banshee  was  neither  an  idle  nor  a 
dallying  one  appeared  that  evening  after  the 
supper  hour,  when  Belle's  compelling  Irish- 
white  little  face  was  thrust  in  excitedly  at  the 
kitchen  door,  while  her  shrill  little  voice  wildly 
demanded  Elizabeth  Anne. 

"Go  away,"  snapped  Aunt  Sarah,  who  was 
in  no  amiable  mood,  aggressively  pushing  her 
slipping  spectacles  onto  the  bridge  of  her  nose, 
and  turning  her  attention  again  to  Grand- 
mother Stratman,  who,  cloaked,  veiled  and 
bonneted,  and  ready  to  start  on  her  homeward 

[103] 


THE   GENIUS   OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

way,  yet  lingered  for  a  final  unburdening  of 
her  mind,  the  tips  of  her  gloved  fingers  resting 
fastidiously  on  the  oilcloth-covered  table  with 
its  scattered  gobs  of  tapioca  and  smears  of 
sirup  from  the  earthen  sirup  jar.  (Aunt 
Sarah  put  on  her  spectacles  chiefly  in  situa- 
tions in  which  she  wished  to  be  abundantly 
able  to  hold  her  own;  they  gave  her  a  dignity 
she  could  attain  to  in  no  other  way.) 

"What  an  impertinent  child  1"  said  Grand- 
mother Stratman  sharply,  lifting  her  chin. 

Caroline,  weakly  dragging  herself  about, 
fidgeted  uncomfortably  between  the  two, 
clutching  at  her  faded  kimono  with  its  washed- 
out  blotches  where  once  had  been  the  freshness 
of  roses,  and  glancing  hopelessly  from  one  to 
the  other. 

"Go  awayl"  repeated  Aunt  Sarah  crossly 
to  the  lingering  Belle. 

"Tut,  tut,"  said  David  chidingly  from  the 
shed  where  he  had  taken  to  smoking  his  pipe. 

"I  was  about  to  say,"  went  on  Grand- 
mother Stratman  with  a  forced  calmness  which 
brought  out  numberless  little  lines  of  repres- 
sion about  her  decisive  mouth,  "what  I  find  it 

[104] 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS 

very  hard  to  say.  I  don't  know  what  people 
can  be  thinking  of  to  bring  into  the  world 
child  after  child  with  absolutely  no  prospects! 
What  can  ever  come  of  it,  save  misery,  and 
more  misery?  It's  madness!" 

She  brought  her  gloved  hands  together 
tragically.  "Simply  madness.  Why,  the  day 
will  come,  may  come  any  time,  when  you  won't 
have  a  roof  over  your  heads!" 

Elizabeth  Anne,  vaguely  sensing  the 
storm,  and  waiting  for  no  more,  wriggled  un- 
seen out  of  the  front  door,  and  stopped  mid- 
way in  the  path  to  make  a  sign. 

'Tis  Shnowball,"  disjointedly  explained 
Belle,  in  immediate  response,  through  stream- 
ing tears,  "down  be  th'  thracks,  deader  aven 
ner  Bogey,  wid  a  sthone  hole  in  her  blissid  hid, 
an'  hersilf  sthiffer'n  a  rham-rod !  .  .  .  Oi  towld 
ye  a  Banshee  was  sittin'  o'er  yer  dure.  .  .  . 
Oi'll  own  though,"  in  a  brightening  burst  of 
candor,  "Oi  did  be  wishin'  'twas  yer  sphry  little 
owld  Aunt  Sarah  she  wor  afther,  or  betther 
sthill,  yer  gran'mither  wid  th'  glassy  eyes!" 


[105] 


TROUBLES    MULTIPLY    FOR    OUR 
HEROINE 


VII 


The  whim  of  a  Banshee  is  outside  the  range 
of  human  comprehension.  Evidently,  like 
care,  it  might  kill  a  cat. 

Similarly,  why  might  it  not  crumble  a 
chimney,  or  dissipate  a  roof,  particularly  if,  as 
Grandmother  had  intimated,  that  were  the 
catastrophe  next  in  order,  and  the  roof  in  ques- 
tion had  long  since  evinced  a  willingness  to 
meet  it  more  than  half  way  in  the  matter? 

Elizabeth  Anne  did  not  mean  to  be  behind- 
hand in  this  contingency,  and  to  that  end  she 
kept  cold  and  sneaking  vigil  behind  the  goose- 
berry bushes,  when  the  opportunity  permitted, 
huddled  in  her  short  jacket  and  breathing 
futilely  on  her  blue,  unmittened  fingers. 

Then  the  vista  of  the  Second  Reader  Class, 
opening  newly  to  her  vision,  dispelled  even  the 
memory  in  a  rosy  mist.  For  the  Second 
Reader  Class,  it  was  soon  borne  in  upon  her, 

[109] 


THE   GENIUS   OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

offered  attractions  of  which  she  had  never 
dreamed. 

To  begin  with,  it  had  autograph  albums. 
One  saw  them  every  now  and  then,  even  in 
school  hours,  in  the  hands  of  their  owners ;  but 
if  the  teacher,  a  dark-skinned  young  woman 
with  protruding  eyes,  drooping  lids,  and  a  con- 
tinual yawn,  chanced  to  look  up  from  her  desk, 
they  disappeared  with  incredible  swiftness, 
giving  just  a  tantalizing  glint  of  their  gor- 
geously designed  covers. 

Wonderful,  mysterious  little  books !  By  no 
means  was  this  the  extent  of  their  beauty. 
Deeper  investigation,  by  way  of  several  secret 
and  half-reluctant  confidences,  revealed  the 
fact  that  inside  were  hearts  and  darts  and 
underscorings  and  bits  of  foil  that  seemed  to 
have  prisoned  the  sunshine,  and  scrolls  and 
"name"  cards  and  paper  lace  and  skillful 
"penmanship"  birds  with  curlicues  elaborate 
enough  to  furnish  designs  for  a  coronation 
brocade. 

In  a  single  breath  of  passionate  desire  Eliza- 
beth Anne  laid  bare  the  joylessness  of  life 
without  an  autograph  album.  In  the  next 

[110] 


TROUBLES    MULTIPLY 

Caroline  looked  at  David,  and  David  looked 
at  Caroline.  Both  looks,  meaning-laden,  told 
the  worst.  Outer  darkness,  social  ostracism, 
tears! — tears  wiped  away  finally  by  Aunt 
Sarah  and  a  ray  of  hope. 

Aunt  Sarah  had  ideas  on  this  subject.  Ripe 
plums,  she  said,  never  fell  into  one's  lap  for 
the  wishing.  There  was  always  some  tree- 
shaking  necessary.  She  proposed  a  course  of 
figurative  tree-shaking,  with  the  attendant 
Yankee  offer  of  a  penny  a  day  to  a  little  girl 
who  would  bring  the  milk  for  her  breakfast. 

Elizabeth  Anne  blinked.  An  album  of 
reasonably  good  appearance  then  cost  about 
forty  cents.  It  would  take — (her  mathemat- 
ical ideas  were  never  of  the  clearest,  but  she 
made  her  deduction  in  the  course  of  time,  with 
furrowed  brow  and  pursed-up  lips)  it  would 
take  more  than  five  weeks  for  it  to  materialize 
in  this  way. 

Five  weeks !  A  lifetime  would  have  seemed 
fully  as  promising.  But  the  time  managed  to 
creep  along  somehow,  and  when  the  treasure 
finally  came  into  her  possession,  it  was  appre- 
ciated accordingly. 

[in] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

In  truth,  it  may  even  be  said,  entirely  with- 
out exaggeration,  that  her  appreciation  was 
undue,  for  she  carried  the  book  about  with  her 
for  days,  wrapped  in  numerous  folds  of  tissue 
paper,  before  she  could  make  up  her  mind  to 
permit  anyone  to  write  in  it. 

No  member  of  the  Second  Reader  Class,  it 
may  be  added,  ever  touched  pen  or  pencil  to 
those  immaculate  pages  by  request.  Nothing 
less  crude  than  the  inscriptions  of  pupils  in  the 
upper  grades,  the  majority  of  whom  she 
scarcely  knew  by  name,  was  allowed. 

They  laughed  at  her  at  first,  and  then,  prob- 
ably a  little  flattered,  entered  their  sentiments 
with  a  flourish  which  she  studied  and  admired 
at  length,  unmindful  of  her  diminishing  circle 
of  Second  Reader  friends. 

Of  these  there  was  only  one  who  presumed 
to  tamper  with  the  situation — the  Red-Headed 
Boy  who  had  also  "passed  with  the  Division," 
and  who  seemed  to  be  omnipresent. 

He  was  an  experimentalist  born,  was  the 
Red-Headed  Boy.  One  thought  of  him  some- 
how as  being  continually  in  an  attitude  of  tip- 
toe on  various  little  mounts  of  his  own  mak- 

[112] 


TROUBLES    MULTIPLY 

ing,  not  a  mean  or  prying  attitude,  mind  you, 
but  simply  that  of  a  friendly  interest  so  deep 
and  so  real  that  it  refused  to  stay  within 
meager  bounds  and  diffused  itself,  Pandora- 
like,  at  the  least  little  touch  of  the  lid  of  the 
confining  receptacle. 

Rabbits  knew  it,  and  squirrels  and  gophers 
and  all  the  timid  wood-folk  with  whom  he  was 
wont  to  hold  esoteric  communings.  They 
opened  sundry  little  doors  to  him,  too — doors 
closed  to  other  boy-hands  more  ruthless,  less 
patient. 

He  could  not  have  been  unaware  of  this 
seeming  favoritism,  and  while  the  knowledge 
did  not  inflate  him,  it  made  him  impatient  of 
any  closed  door  of  whatever  nature. 

Besides  he  had  a  plan  with  reference  to  the 
forbidden  album,  and  fate  in  the  shape  of  a 
protracted  errand  for  willing  girlish  feet, 
favored  it  at  an  early  date. 

Carefully  unrolling  the  little  book  from  its 
numerous  swathings  in  his  opportunity,  he  re- 
tired with  it  to  an  unmolested  spot,  and  seek- 
ing the  whitest  of  white  pages,  adorned  it  in 
the  following  fashion  with  such  effort  as  to 

[113] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

bring  beads  of  sweat  to  his  yellow-speckled 
forehead : 

"  Remember  me  when  this  you  see, 
And  see  if  you  can  find  out  who  I  be." 

Vain,  alas,  were  his  hopes  and  his  unaccus- 
tomed flourishes.  When  Elizabeth  Anne  re- 
turned to  her  desk,  her  first  act  was  to  tenderly 
,draw  the  precious  volume  from  its  abiding 
place,  and  gloat  over  its  pages  for  the  hun- 
dredth time. 

Presently  she  set  her  foot  down  hard,  her 
thin  lips  tightened,  and  her  gray  eyes  flashed 
unwonted  fire.  Then  deliberately  and  with  as 
much  care  as  the  uninvited  writer  had  shown, 
she  took  up  her  pen,  and  inscribed  beneath  the 
unsought  offering  a  sentiment  entirely  her 
own: 

"I  know  just  who  you  be,"  she  wrote  vin- 
dictively, on  vengeance  bent,  and  religiously 
adhering  to  the  rhyming  order,  "but  I  don't 
care,  you  see,  I'll  tear  it  out  this  day,  and  throw 
it  right  away." 

A  threat  which  she  immediately  proceeded 
to  execute. 

[114] 


TROUBLES    MULTIPLY 

Nevertheless  the  triumph  of  the  faithful 
Red-headed  Boy  was  still  to  come,  for  today 
the  little  brown-covered  album  with  its  sheath 
of  forget-me-nots  yellowed  by  age  is  treasured 
only  for  that  ragged  stub  of  a  page  which  once 
bore  the  handwriting  of  a  friend. 

As  for  the  others,  colors  and  contours  grew 
dull  with  time;  the  brush  of  memory  failed  in 
the  retouching;  faces  appeared  and  reappeared 
momentarily  with  varying  degrees  of  distinct- 
ness, and  at  last  one  and  all  slipped  away  hope- 
lessly from  the  dear,  strangely-wrought,  all 
too-rapidly  dimming  canvas  of  the  past. 

Now  the  Second  Reader  Class  had  another 
attraction  quite  on  a  par  with  autograph  al- 
bums. It  consisted  of  a  weekly  dialogue,  usu- 
ally adapted  from  a  popular  fairy  story,  and 
constituting  a  part  of  the  Friday  afternoon 
"speaking"  exercises. 

For  this  the  participants  were  allowed  "cos- 
tumes"— crude  things  of  home  manufacture, 
but  invested  with  a  glory  totally  dispropor- 
tionate to  their  claims.  Elizabeth  Anne  rev- 
eled in  a  part  which  demanded  gorgeous  flow- 
ing draperies,  and  when  the  role  of  Princess 

[115] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

Starbright,  in  a  crepe  paper  robe  of  primrose 
yellow,  fell  to  her  lot — well,  earth  has  her 
Eden;  Elizabeth  Anne  had  her  Princess  Star- 
bright  ! 

And  the  days,  just  then,  were  creeping  back 
to  luxurious  warmth  and  sunniness,  and  there 
was  a  wafting  of  perfume  in  every  sweep  of 
breeze  from  the  pink  heaven  of  crab-apple 
blossoms  beyond  the  schoolhouse,  and  dottings 
of  bloodroot  and  hepaticas  on  teacher's  desk 
like  the  tiny  islands  of  a  flowery  archipelago. 

More,  a  tableau,  the  very  height  of  enter- 
tainment in  the  eyes  of  the  "Second  Readers," 
had  been  arranged  as  a  crowning  feature  of 
that  week's  performance. 

The  magnificent  effect  was  achieved  very 
humbly  by  drawing  the  shades,  and  burning  a 
powder  on  a  shovel  held  in  the  hands  of  an  up- 
per grade  boy.  The  odor  of  the  burning  stuff 
was  abominable,  and  the  dramatic  figures 
kneeling  on  the  platform  choked  heroically  to 
keep  from  coughing,  but  not  one  would  have 
relinquished  this  supreme  moment  in  the  face 
of  any  ordeal. 

As  for  Princess  Starbright,  one  might  almost 
[116] 


TROUBLES    MULTIPLY 

have  seen  the  rapturous  beating  of  her  small 
excited  heart  under  the  royal  folds  of  the  Prin- 
cess' gown,  and  for  days  thereafter — golden 
days,  idyllic  days,  days  to  be  drained  to  the 
dregs  for  their  sweetness — she  trod  in  a  maze  of 
perfect  delight,  nor  set  her  foot  on  common 
earth. 

"Histrionic?"  pondered  Caroline  with  a 
sinking  fear,  for  the  stage  she  had  been  taught 
to  believe  spelled  everything  unholy  for  wo- 
man. Never,  she  resolved,  albeit,  would  she 
interfere  with  so  sacred  a  thing  as  a  natural 
gift  whatever  its  trend. 

But  at  this  point  there  arose  an  unlooked- 
for  complication.  The  new  votary  of  things 
magical,  carried  away  with  the  charm  of  fairy 
license,  began  to  turn  it  to  practical  account. 

Why  banish  so  pretty  a  thing  as  the  dream- 
world from  everyday  consideration?  Why 
hold  it  always  provokingly  at  arm's  length 
from  the  workaday  world?  When  the  trees 
along  O'Hara  Street  began  to  mark  more 
vividly  the  penciled  delicacy  of  their  fresh 
trimmings  against  a  bare  expanse  of  sky,  and 
a  thousand  feathered  throats  vied  with  each 

[117] 


THE   GENIUS   OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

other  in  a  thousand  flute-like  notes  of  delight, 
it  was  easy  to  imagine  that  the  one  had  reached 
down  benignly  and  joined  hands  with  the  other. 

And  then  came  a  morning  with  something 
to  add  to  the  illusion.  Down  in  the  path  at 
the  school-yard  gate  where  the  trickling  rains 
had  worn  a  little  beaten  space,  lay  a  rose — a 
real  rose,  great,  red,  soft-petaled,  long- 
stemmed,  warm  and  satiny  to  its  inner  heart, 
breathing  exquisite  things.  Elizabeth  Anne, 
with  a  low  cry,  crouched  to  the  ground,  un- 
mindful of  the  wet,  and  lifted  the  exotic  thing 
to  her  breast. 

"I've  brought  you  a  rose,  Miss  Barlow," 
she  was  panting  a  few  moments  later,  having 
clambered  up  the  stairs  to  that  lady's  office. 

Only  the  highest  shrine,  she  felt  sure,  was 
worthy  to  receive  such  an  offering,  and  she 
advanced  triumphantly,  being  careful  to  keep 
well  in  the  fore  of  chubby,  red-faced  short- 
legged  Robert,  who,  immediately  upon  the  dis- 
covery, had  darted  after  her,  and  who  now 
stood  twirling  his  cap,  and  determined  to  have 
his  part  in  the  presentation. 

[118] 


TROUBLES    MULTIPLY 

Miss  Barlow  looked  up  from  the  formidable 
pile  of  record-books  she  was  examining. 

"H'm,  thank  you,"  she  said  critically,  "where 
did  you  find  it?" 

The  donor  clutched  her  starched  apron 
strings  with  sudden  embarrassment;  it  had  oc- 
curred to  her  that  a  gift  ought  to  be  more  than 
a  mere  "finding." 

"Home — in  a  vase,"  she  answered  faintly, 
when  she  could  summon  the  necessary  courage. 
"My  mother  has  hundreds  an'  hundreds  of 
'em,"  wildly — the  starched  apron  strings  be- 
coming an  unsightly  ball  in  the  working  fin- 
gers— "an'  she  lets  me  take  'em  whenever  I 
like." 

"H'm,"  again  observed  Miss  Barlow,  taking 
note  of  the  signs,  and  thrusting  the  rosy  beauty 
into  a  tall  vase  between  two  exact  counter- 
parts of  itself,  "it  looks  so  remarkably  like  one 
I  lost  on  my  way  to  school  this  morning,  that  I 
think  you  and  I  will  have  a  little  talk  about  it 
after  school  tonight.  You  may  go  now.  You 
were  very  kind  to  bring  it  to  me,  but  under  the 
circumstances  we  cannot  let  the  matter  drop 
there." 

[119] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

And  Elizabeth  Anne  retired  sadly  to  the 
remotest  corner  of  the  wood-shed. 

"I  did  get  it  at  home!"  she  declared  stoutly 
to  Robert,  who  followed  tentatively,  "y°u 
know  I  did,  but  the — the  Monster — the  Mon- 
ster with  the  Great  Head  and  the  Basilisk 
Eyes—" 

"Huh,"  stolidly  interrupted  the  matter-of- 
fact  Robert,  who  had  witnessed  proceedings 
from  beginning  to  end,  and  who  felt  called 
upon  to  speak  his  mind,  "you  told  a  lie,  that's 
all,  an'  got  caught  at  it." 

"An*  what's  Miss  Barlow  goin'  to  do?" 
queried  Minnie  Bird  with  fat  unconcern,  ar- 
riving inopportunely  on  the  scene. 

"Shave  off  her  hid,  an'  ate  her  widout 
fryin',"  unfeelingly  taunted  Belle  O'Hara  in 
her  wake. 

Only  Caroline  bore  patiently  with  the  vic- 
tim of  these  hallucinations,  and  she  endured 
until  the  reign  of  the  Princess  of  the  Beautiful 
Thumb  Prints,  a  period  when  a  small,  sly, 
sooty  thumb-mark,  presumable  cognizance  of 
royal  rank,  appeared  on  every  article  in  the 

[120] 


TROUBLES    MULTIPLY 

house  that  by  its  breadth  and  fairness  of  sur- 
face seemed  to  invite  the  impression. 

It  is  doubtful,  just  here,  however,  whether 
her  mild,  motherly  rebellion  would  have  been 
adequate  to  the  case,  had  it  not  been  aided  and 
abetted  by  an  approaching  epidemic  of  the 
measles.  One  by  one,  the  unfortunate  Second 
Readers  steadily  fell  victims  to  the  onslaught, 
Elizabeth  Anne,  believing  it  to  be  the  work 
of  a  wicked  magician,  meanwhile  practicing,  in 
defense,  all  the  charms  of  which  she  had  any 
knowledge. 

When,  despite  the  most  careful  effort  on  her 
part,  her  throat  ached  and  swelled,  and  her 
eyes  and  head  grew  heavy,  her  surprise  was 
boundless,  but  her  faith  unshaken. 

"Measles,  of  course,"  said  the  uncompromis- 
ing old  doctor  who  had  been  called  in  to  make 
an  examination,  and  who  sat  staring  owl-like 
through  his  spectacles.  "Why,  by  tomorrow 
you'll  be  as  speckled  as  a  speckled  hen." 

The  patient  drew  herself  up  very  stiffly 
against  the  pillow,  winking  hard,  and  fighting 
valiantly  with  a  growing  lump  in  her  throat. 

"I  don't  see  how  it  can  be,"  she  said  stub- 

[121] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

bornly  with  clinched  hands  and  blazing  cheeks, 
"I've  charmed  it  off  for  two  weeks,  I  tell  you. 
But  if  it  just  must  come  to  this  house,  couldn't 
you  wish  it  onto  her?"  with  a  hopeful  gesture 
toward  the  coldly  smiling  Mercedes,  whose 
f rowzled  flaxen  head  stuck  up  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  "She  never  says  she's  sorry  for  anything, 
an'  she's  got  'n  awful  wicked  pride." 

But  the  doctor's  prowess  in  this  direction 
proved  unequal  to  his  professional  skill,  and 
his  prediction  being  verified  next  morning,  the 
reign  of  the  Princess  of  the  Beautiful  Thumb 
Prints  and  all  her  kind  came  to  a  summary 
end. 


[122] 


ELIZABETH  RECEIVES   "A 
NHXTITATION  " 


VIII 

ELIZABETH  RECEIVES  "A  NINVI- 
TATION  " 

It  is  a  critical  moment  in  the  life  of  any  of 
us  when  we  get  the  initial  blow  at  that  firm, 
but  delicately  poised  thing,  our  first  faith. 
Elizabeth  Anne,  receiving  it  together  with  the 
measles,  took  it  hard,  but  she  did  not  intend 
to  divulge  the  fact  to  the  possibly  unsympa- 
thetic. 

"You  haven't  got  not  a  single  speckle,"  she 
remarked  superiorly  to  the  still  unmoved  and 
vapid-mouthed  Mercedes  in  her  vantage  point 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "You  poor,  pink  ninny. 
I  don't  b'leeve  you  could  have  anything!  You 
don't  look  like  it  anyhow.  Why,  even  Robert 
an'  Baby  Ve  got  'em,  an'  folks  with  the  measles 
get  toast  an'  sage-tea  ev'ry  day!  Mother,"  as 
an  anxious  face,  alert  and  pallid  and  self-for- 
getful, appeared  at  the  door,  "why  is  it  so  still 
in  here?  Why  don't  somebody  that  can  talk 
come  and  sit  on  the  bed?" 
[125] 


t        THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

Caroline  advanced  a  few  steps  with  her  pat- 
tering, slippered  tread. 

"Because  the  measles  are  catching,  Betty," 
she  said  in  her  definite,  painstaking  way,  kneel- 
ing down  and  smoothing  the  hair  back  from 
the  little  red  fevered  forehead,  "that  is,  who- 
ever comes  near  you  is  apt  to  get  them,  too." 

Elizabeth  Anne  sighed. 

"Put  Mercedes  in  my  arms,  mother,"  she 
begged  upon  reflection,  snuggling  up  and  care- 
fully smoothing  a  little  place  between  the 
sheets,  "right  up  close." 

And  Caroline's  simple  heart  swelled  with 
pity  for  a  state  so  lonely  as  to  bring  forth  this 
unwonted  show  of  maternal  tenderness. 

Meanwhile  the  drama  of  life  in  O'Hara 
Street  went  on  in  wonted  fashion,  and  there 
came  freely  through  the  open  windows  (thrown 
wide  to  oncoming  summer,  the  boon  of  the 
poor)  the  perfect  medley  of  sound  which  made 
up  its  orchestral  accompaniment,  varying  from 
the  sparrow's  repetitive  and  monotonous  "chee- 
up,  chee-up,  chee-up"  under  the  eaves  to 
Marthy's  tuneless  and  voluptuous  "I  wanta  be 
an  angel,  an'  with  th'  angels  stand." 

[126] 


"A    NINVITATION" 

These  were  broken  into,  ever  and  anon,  by 
Grandma  Prouty's  shrill  hagglings  with  the 
ragman,  or  Mittie  Peeler's  hacking  cough,  or 
Uncle  Pete's  rising  denunciations  of  Carrick's 
goat:  "Och,  wirra  th'  day!  Oi'll  fhix  'im,  th' 
spalpeen,  an'  Carrick  wid  'im.  Sowl  av  St. 
Michael,  but  th'  baboon  face  av  'im  is  turnin' 
me  sick  wid  hate!" 

As  a  sort  of  speechless  climax  to  this  tirade, 
Uncle  Pete  was  given  to  hurling,  javelin-wise 
a  superannuated  cabbage-stalk,  and  this,  upon 
occasion,  falling  so  wide  of  the  mark  as  to  land, 
via  the  window,  in  the  middle  of  Elizabeth 
Anne's  sick-bed,  the  startled  occupant,  now  on 
the  highroad  to  convalescence,  and  unable  to 
contain  herself  longer  as  a  mere  listener,  sat 
up  suddenly  and  lifted  her  small  voice  for  a  lilt 
in  the  chorus. 

"Uncle  Pete,"  she  called  pipingly  to  the 
little  old  irate  figure  under  the  window,  "it's 
awful  t'  hate!  Miss  Wade  says  it's  just  the 
same  as  murder!" 

The  challenged  deliberated  a  moment,  draw- 
ing soberly  at  his  short  pipe  and  gazing  un- 

[127] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

easily  at  the  narrow  open  space  from  which 
the  sound  apparently  proceeded. 

"You  b'leeve  me,  don't  you?"  persisted  the 
small  voice  with  all  seriousness. 

Uncle  Pete  slowly  removed  his  pipe  and 
tapped  it  thoughtfully  against  the  sill. 

"Mavourneen,"  he  said  gallantly,  "Oi'd 
blave  yez,  no  matter  if  Oi  knowed  ye  wor  lyin', 
but  Oi'm  thinkin',  me  gur-rl,  f'r  all  thot,  'tis 
a  foine  sight  healthier  f'r  thim  two  whiskered 
byes  th'  way  it  sthands." 

The  argument  was  interrupted  here  by  the 
regular  slosh-slosh  of  Maggie's  loose  shoes, 
and  her  playful  cuff  on  her  old  uncle's  ear. 
Clutching  wildly  at  her  massive  bosom  was  a 
very  young,  and  very  wide-eyed  "calico"  kit- 
ten, spitting  desperately  and  with  every  hair 
erect. 

'Tis  a  prisint  f'r  yez,  yer  Shnowball  bein* 
kilt,"  she  explained  amiably,  assisting  the 
tensely  clinging  feet  over  the  sill,  and  smooth- 
ing the  scratches  on  her  brawny  arm  with  her 
tongue,  "but  faith  'n  Oi  dunno  am  Oi  agivin'  it 
'r  is  it  agivin'  me." 

In  her  flapping  apron  pocket  was  a  note 

[128] 


"A    NINVITATION" 

from  Belle,  who  had  already  had  the  measles. 

"Love  av  Hivin,"  said  the  note  dramatically 
through  many  soiled  erasure  spots,  "don't  lave 
'em  kape  ye  in  bed  anny  longer.  P.  S. :  There's 
a  show  on  Mane  Street  wid  a  dancin'  bare. 
Yer  frind  Belle  O'Hara." 

It  was  all  too  true,  as  a  distant,  syncopated 
drum-beat  and  the  scurrying  feet  of  Marthy, 
hair  streaming,  and  a  forgotten  dish-rag  in  her 
hand,  shortly  testified  beyond  a  question.  Past 
her  like  a  faded  blue  streak  darted  Belle,  el- 
bows out  and  thin  legs  flying,  while  Maggie 
and  Pete,  not  to  be  outdone,  added  their  ener- 
gies to  the  race. 

Behind  them,  only  martyrdom  and  the  gall- 
ing of  the  martyr's  shackles. 

But  it  was,  after  all,  ultimately  a  disap- 
pointed audience  for  which  the  poor,  old,  buf- 
feted, browbeaten  cinnamon  bear  danced  that 
morning.  There  were  greater  glories,  it  ap- 
peared, concealed  in  a  huge  tent  which  had 
sprung  up  mushroom  fashion  on  a  vacant  lot — 
glories  referred  to  at  some  length  by  the  round 
old  Teuton  proprietor  who  stood  agitatedly 
at  the  street  corner. 

[129] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

And  it  was  free — all  free!  Save  the  mark! 
To  attempt  to  enter  was  to  be  immediately  ac- 
costed by  a  glib  gentleman  with  a  wild  blond 
mop  of  hair,  a  bottle  of  K — 's  Pain  Killer  and 
the  rather  belated  explanation,  "You  no  puy 
my  medicine,  I  charch  you  den  cends  to  see 
my  free  show." 

Hapless,  seeking,  diversion-hungry  Cull 
Prairie  in  the  full  swing  of  convalescence !  Had 
it  not  been  already  dosed  till  it  was  lean  of 
purse  and  stomach? 

"There  do  be  some  fun  in  the  mazles,"  con- 
fided the  baffled  Belle  from  a  plant-stand 
mount  under  the  window  on  her  return. 
"Shure  an'  whin  c'n  ye  thrust  a  German  at 
tall,  at  tall?" 

Elizabeth  Anne  popped  into  a  sitting  pos- 
ture, eyes  alight,  and  with  an  alacrity  not  at  all 
consistent  with  respectable  invalidism,  but  it 
was  not  to  the  defense  of  the  German  she 
sprang,  nor  had  her  eagerness  anything  to  do 
with  forbidden  tents,  or  chagrined  audiences, 
or  pain-killing  remedies. 

In  a  short,  unexpectedly  blossoming  half 
hour,  her  martyrdom  had  been  scattered  to  the 

[130] 


"A    NINVITATION" 

four  winds  of  heaven.  She  too  had  news — 
news  that  had  come  grandly  in  a  square  white 
envelope  from  the  postoffice. 

Caroline,  upon  reading  it,  had  been  divided 
between  a  smile  and  a  tear;  and  David,  who 
had  brought  it  in,  had  put  his  arm  around  her 
shoulders,  and  so  decided  her  in  favor  of  the 
former.  "An' — an'  it  asks  Robert  an'  me  to 
come  for  a  week's  visit  to  Hedgegirt  in  Brook- 
lawn  where  our  Grandmother  Stratman  lives, 
when  we  get  better,"  announced  the  narrator 
triumphantly,  as  a  climax,  "an'  you  call  it  a 
'ninvitation.' ' 

A  "ninvitation" — clean,  white,  red-sealed, 
ink  written!  descended  an  alien  thing  in 
O'Hara  Street.  The  cinnamon  bear  might 
now  well  make  his  last  bow,  and  retreat  to  the 
limbo  of  the  shadows. 

Even  Belle  was  properly  impressed,  and,  no 
doubt  believing  herself  privileged  by  so 
weighty  a  confidence,  slipped  in  many  times 
in  the  week  to  come,  and  sat  with  her  hand  cup- 
ping her  chin  in  the  little  conferences  between 
the  daylight  and  the  dark,  which  included  only 

[131] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

the  feminine  members  of  the  family,  and  in 
which  the  all-engrossing  matter  of  a  new  dress 
was  gone  over  and  over.  For,  of  course, 
acceptance  was  a  foregone  conclusion,  and 
equally,  of  course,  a  frock  befitting  the 
occasion. 

So  while  the  two  minded  the  baby  between 
them,  Caroline  took  up  a  pencil,  and  set  down 
some  figures  and  pouted  and  frowned,  and 
rumpled  her  usually  smooth  and  shining 
hair,  and  ended  by  crossing  out  the  figures, 
and  burning  the  paper.  But  at  last  she  put 
on  her  gray  shawl,  and  went  out  silently  into 
the  twilight,  and  then  they  knew  it  was  to 
come. 

Poor,  marvelously  eked-out  little  dress, 
evoked  from  none  could  tell  where,  save 
those  who  would  not  speak!  Caroline  turned 
away  from  its  shining  blue  sateen  splendor, 
when  the  parcel  was  opened,  but  Elizabeth 
Anne  loved  its  dear,  "near"  silkiness,  and  pat- 
ted it  with  both  hands  and  caressed  it  with 
her  cheek. 

And  when,  after  a  little  space  all  throbbing 
with  hope  and  animation,  it  became  an  entity, 

[132] 


"A    NINVITATION" 

and  hung  gracefully  from  a  chair  back,  with 
its  cotton  lace  frills,  she  danced  madly  for  sheer 
joy,  dragging  Belle  into  the  dance,  and  point- 
ing out  to  her  proudly  every  feature  of  the  cos- 
tume which  had  swelled  gradually  to  wonder- 
ful proportions,  including  at  the  last  a  round, 
crimped  muslin  hat,  a  pair  of  white  lisle  mitts, 
and,  as  a  final  surprise,  a  string  of  pink  glass 
beads,  already  the  apple  of  their  owner's  eye. 

The  last  desire  of  her  heart,  it  seemed,  had 
been  gratified  in  these,  and  when,  with  kaleido- 
scopic swiftness,  as  events  always  moved  for 
her,  the  hour  of  starting  was  at  hand,  she 
stepped  forth  very  confidently,  clutching  the 
previously  procured  tickets  with  one  hand,  and 
making  frantic  efforts  to  keep  the  immaculately 
gingham-clad  Robert  decorously  at  her  side 
with  the  other. 

But  the  leave  taking  from  the  assembled 
group  in  the  front  yard  had  only  begun,  and 
from  the  general  effusiveness  of  its  nature  one 
might  have  judged  this  a  journeying  to 
Algiers. 

"Good-bye,"  said  "Grandma"  Prouty,  the 

[133] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

spokesman,  on  second  thoughts  thrusting  out 
a  little  claw-like  hand. 

"Good-bye,"  coughingly  echoed  Mittie 
Peeler,  who  had  never  been  three  miles  away 
from  Cull  Prairie  in  her  life,  and  who  was  ac- 
tually wiping  her  eyes. 

"Be  good  t'  yersilves,"  suggested  Maggie 
and  Belle,  hanging  over  the  fence  with  as- 
sumed nonchalance. 

Caroline,  a  bit  of  faded  gray  checked  ker- 
chief about  her  shoulders,  followed  them  to 
the  gate  with  her  last  admonitions.  She  had 
been  eating  a  lunch,  and  there  were  childish 
traces  of  drippings  about  her  warmly  red 
mouth. 

"Take  good  care  of  Robert,  and  remember 
you're  my  little  Betty-Genius,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper.  "And — there's  one  thing,  children," 
she  finished  doubtfully  with  a  shy  look  around, 
"don't  ask  for  syrup  or  drippings  with  your 
bread.  Couldn't  you — won't  you — try  to  act 
as  if  you  were  used  to  the  butter  when  it  is 
passed?" 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  mentioned 
anything  of  the  sort,  and  her  embarrassment 

[184] 


"A    NINVITATION  " 

sent  her  back  into  the  house  before  the  farewells 
were  satisfactorily  over. 

Aunt  Sarah,  who  had  stood  quietly  back  of 
her,  and  who  seemed  to  have  guessed  the  im- 
port of  the  whisper,  ran  after  the  travelers. 

"You're  just  as  good  as  anybody,"  she  said, 
apropos  of  nothing  in  particular,  "remember 
that,  and  hold  up  your  heads.  Money  makes 
no  difference;  it's  the  heart  that  matters,  only 
the  heart !"  She  tapped  her  flat  little  chest  like 
an  agitated  woodpecker. 

At  the  corner  was  David,  waiting  to  see 
them  safely  in  the  train.  His  mild  eyes  lit  up 
with  approval  as  his  gaze  fell  upon  them.  To 
him,  his  daughter,  in  her  blue  gown  and  pink 
beads,  seemed  very  well  dressed  indeed. 

He  was  half  doubtful  about  touching  her 
hand  in  its  soft  white  mitt.  Together  they 
went  on  silently  up  the  street,  through  the 
early  summer  sunshine,  and  as  silently  took 
their  leave  at  the  car  steps. 

It  was  a  big  moment  for  both  children,  and 
their  hearts  pounded  noisily  against  their  ribs, 
as  the  heavily  panting  engine  again  took  up 
its  course. 

[135] 


THE   GENIUS    OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

However,  it  being  only  one  station  to  Brook- 
lawn,  the  time  they  remained  in  the  deep,  won- 
derful, red  plush  seat  seemed  incredibly  short, 
and  almost  before  they  had  had  time  to  adjust 
themselves  to  surroundings,  or  to  find  out  to 
their  satisfaction  what  the  fat  woman  with  the 
lustily  crying  baby  meant  to  do  in  her  extrem- 
ity, grandmother  herself,  rustling  graciously 
in  her  silken  coat,  had  taken  a  hand  of  each, 
and  was  leading  the  way  down  the  broad  board 
walk. 

As  they  climbed  into  the  carriage  she  bent 
her  head  with  an  unexpected  pecking  move- 
ment, and  touched  with  her  lips  the  round, 
peach-hued  circle  of  Robert's  cheek,  just 
where  the  dimple  twinkled  in  and  out,  but 
when,  in  turn,  she  leaned  toward  Elizabeth 
Anne  with  similar  intention,  a  certain  meek, 
suggestive  bend  of  the  girlish  neck  deterred 
her,  and  she  turned  her  attention  instead  to  the 
driver — her  humble,  thick-set,  red-faced  head 
farmer — with  an  imperious  gesture. 

The  carriage  sped  along,  out  of  the  still, 
narrow  Brooklawn  streets  into  the  wide  and 
greening  spaces  beyond.  Grandmother  Strat- 

[136] 


"A    NINVITATION" 

man  sat  up  very  straight,  not  speaking  at  first, 
perhaps  not  thinking  it  necessary  to  speak. 
In  her  hand-bag  was  a  faintly  scented  roll 
which  she  drew  forth  presently,  and  scanned 
interestedly  from  time  to  time — a  pamphlet  of 
the  Brooklawn  Ladies'  Social  League,  with  the 
topic  for  the  week,  "The  Ethics  of  Children's 
Clothing,"  boldly  underlined. 


[137] 


OUR  HEROINE  IS  "  TAKEN  IN  " 


IX 
OUR  HEROINE  IS  "  TAKEN  IN  " 

"I  am  surprised  to  see  you  in  such  a  tawdry 
dress,"  said  Grandmother  Stratman  at  last 
in  a  low  voice,  deliberately  restoring  the  pam- 
phlet, and  breaking  the  heavy  silence. 

She  paused  at  the  name  which  she  would 
never  willingly  speak,  but  her  gaze  met  her 
granddaughter's  awe-filled  eyes. 

"Your  mother  always  had  the  most  remark- 
able notions  of  clothes.  There  is  positively  no 
excuse  in  the  world  for  tawdriness.  The  idea 
of  a  cheap  bauble  like  that  on  your  neck!  I 
can't  imagine  anything  more  out  of  keeping. 
.  .  .  And  Robert,  you  have  soiled  and 
wrinkled  your  blouse  unbelievably  in  so  short 
a  journey." 

By  the  time  they  had  reached  the  preten- 
tious Stratman  portico,  the  two  children  were 
gripping  hands  resolutely  under  the  lap-robe 
in  mutual  sympathy. 

Still  hand  in  hand,  they  walked  into  the 

[141] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

formidable  sitting-room  and  caught  a  glimpse 
through  heavy  velvet  portieres  of  the  ornate 
parlor.  In  awed  silence  they  sat  down  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  slippery  high-backed  chairs, 
Aunt  Ellen  and  Aunt  Virginia,  whom  they 
had  never  before  seen,  looking  at  them  intently, 
but  seeming  not  to  see  them. 

There  was  something  in  the  atmosphere  that 
they  could  not  comprehend,  something  that 
hampered  sociability,  and  took  away  half  the 
attraction  of  the  soft  carpets  and  velvets,  the 
pictured  faces  looking  down  from  the  wall, 
the  glittering  sideboard  in  the  room  beyond, 
with  its  great  bowl  of  huge  deep -yellow  or- 
anges, loot  of  some  favored  earth-spot.  Even 
the  final  announcement  of  dinner,  savory  as 
it  promised  to  be,  did  not  appear  to  mitigate  it. 

The  aunts  sat  opposite  them  at  dinner,  and 
their  gaze  continued  at  closer  range.  Aunt 
Ellen,  the  elder,  was  rather  short  as  compared 
to  the  other  members  of  her  family,  and  in- 
clined to  stockiness,  which  was  accentuated  by 
her  ruffled,  bead-trimmed  house  dress. 

Her  manner  was  spiritless,  her  drab  hair 
parted  in  the  middle  and  fastened  in  a  heavy 

[142] 


OUR    HEROINE    IS    "TAKEN    IN" 

knot  at  the  nape  of  her  neck,  her  eyes  large, 
of  no  definite  color,  and  seeming  still  to  hold 
the  ghosts  of  shy,  hidden  dreams  which  practi- 
cal considerations  had  put  to  rout. 

"The  boy  Robert,"  she  said,  being  the  first 
to  speak  as  they  sank  into  their  places,  "favors 
Cousin  Matthew  as  a  child,  I  think.  Remem- 
ber that  observing  way  of  his,  and  the  tuft  of 
hair  on  his  crown  that  always  would  stand  up 
straight?" 

She  laughed  faintly,  as  if  questioning  her 
mother's  permission  in  the  act;  then,  noting 
the  preoccupation  of  the  older  woman  who,  be- 
ing hungry,  was  just  then  giving  her  first  atten- 
tion to  the  viands,  continued  more  boldly:  "He 
has  the  same  sort  of  ears,  too — so  unfurled- 
looking  and  tight  to  his  head,  and  those  mis- 
chievous eyes  are  unmistakable." 

"I'd  call  them  rather  trickier  than  Cousin 
Matthew's,"  dissented  Virginia,  in  more  alert 
and  independent  fashion,  resting  her  spoon  on 
the  edge  of  her  soup  plate. 

Her  voice  sounded  sharp,  being  several  keys 
higher  than  her  sister's  round  tone,  and  the 
sharpness  extended  to  her  elbows  and  cheek- 

[143] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

bones,  and  was  carried  out  in  a  general  harsh 
thinness  of  body.  Her  dark  hair  was  crimped, 
and  piled  high  about  a  fan-shaped  jet  orna- 
ment ;  there  was  a  dangling  double  chain  about 
her  neck,  a  large  square  brooch  at  her  throat, 
and  three  rings  on  a  single  finger  of  her  right 
hand. 

"But  I  was  thinking  of  the  girl,"  she  went 
on,  reflectively.  "She" — (Elizabeth  Anne  al- 
ways resented  the  third  person  as  applied  to 
herself  in  her  presence;  it  gave  her  a  sense  of 
being  deaf  and  dumb,  or  lacking  in  some  way) 
"she  hasn't  a  feature  in  common  with  Caroline 
that  I  can  see,  and  her  nose  is  something  I  can't 
locate." 

"You  don't  happen  to  have  met  Sarah  Lang- 
don,"  drily  interposed  Grandmother  Strat- 
man,  quirking  her  little  finger  as  she  lifted  her 
glass,  and  abruptly  joining  in  the  conversa- 
tion, "or  you  might  be  enlightened." 

"Perhaps  she  is  accountable,  too,  for  the 
pert  upper  lip  and  the  high  shoulders,"  ob- 
served Virginia,  elevating  her  brows.  Ellen, 
beside  her,  jerkily  touched  her  elbow,  and 
coughed  with  a  significant  sound  that  was 

[  144] 


OUR    HEROINE    IS    "TAKEN    IN" 

meant  to  imply:  "Be  careful.     Perhaps  they 
know  more  than  they  seem  to." 

"How  is  your  mother,  Elizabeth?"  she  asked 
formally,  uneasily  changing  the  subject.  To 
her,  childhood  was  a  bit  of  cipher  code  which 
she  made  kindly,  if  futile,  efforts  to  translate. 

Elizabeth  Anne  started.  She  had  been  won- 
dering how  one  acted  when  one  was  used  to 
the  butter. 

"Very  well,  thank  you,"  she  answered  al- 
most inarticulately,  relieved  to  find  that  she 
still  had  the  power  of  speech. 

"And  your  father?"  inquired  Aunt  Ellen 
briskly,  as  if  she  feared  that  the  topic  might  be 
lost. 

"Very  well,  thank  you,"  repeated  her  niece 
weakly,  wondering  if  there  were  any  other 
suitable  answer  to  this  question,  and  amazed 
at  her  own  stupidity. 

"And  the  baby?"  inquired  Aunt  Ellen  with 
a  note  of  elation,  feeling  that  she  was  doing 
well. 

Elizabeth  Anne  gulped.  What  was  genius 
for,  if  not  to  help  one  in  such  an  emergency  as 
this  ?  She  glanced  appealingly  at  Robert,  only 

[145] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

to  find  him  at  last  industriously  following  Aunt 
Sarah's  oft-repeated  advice  "to  let  his  victuals 
stop  his  mouth." 

"What  do  you  do  when  you  are  at  home?" 
began  the  catechist  with  a  fresh  inspiration, 
neatly  attacking  her  salad. 

The  catechised  sat  up  with  a  sudden  jerk, 
crumpled  her  napkin,  and  caught  her  breath 
in  a  sharp  little  gasp. 

"We  all  do  everything,"  she  burst  forth  pre- 
cipitately and  enigmatically  with  fearful  pre- 
monitions of,  "What  does  your  mother  do? 
And  your  father?  And  the  baby?"  that  were 
likely  to  follow. 

"After  all,  that  curve  of  her  right  eyebrow 
when  she  speaks  is  like  Caroline's,"  broke  in 
Virginia  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  made  a 
discovery,  "but  her  manners,  or  rather,  her 
lack  of  them,  remind  me  of  Mm"  with  a  pecu- 
liar emphasis  on  the  pronoun.  "Poor  child!" 

Elizabeth  Anne,  fortunate  in  all  fundamen- 
tal respects,  had  never  before  heard  that  epi- 
thet in  connection  with  herself.  It  made  her 
tingle,  though  she  did  not  know  why,  with  hot 
resentment.  She  jumped  up  with  a  sort  of 

[  146] 


OUR    HEROINE    IS    "TAKEN    IN" 

scattered,  dissected  feeling,  when  the  meal  was 
over,  and  would  have  escaped  at  the  outer  door, 
through  which  Robert  had  already  crept 
pariah-like  into  the  yard,  when  a  firm  hand  de- 
tained her. 

"I  dislike  to  see  a  girl  romp  out  of  doors  with 
boys,"  said  Grandmother,  reprovingly.  "You 
should  have  something  to  occupy  you  in  the 
house.  .  .  .  Your  mother  says  your  eyes 
are  weak.  Let  me  see,"  unceremoniously  lift- 
ing the  small  chin  on  her  forefinger.  "They 
don't  look  so  to  me.  In  any  case,  there  will  be 
something  you  can  do  without  injury  to  them. 
Virginia,  get  me  a  skein  of  pea-green  zepher 
and  some  perforated  cardboard.  We'll  see 
if  we  can  begin  an  'air-castle'.  .  .  .  Of 
course  you  have  been  taught  simple  cross- 
stitch?" 

Elizabeth  Anne  gulped  again,  her  awkward 
little  untrained  fingers  fluttered  in  her  lap ;  the 
dismal  negative  almost  stuck  in  her  throat.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  feeling  stupid 
and  incompetent,  and  the  sensation  was  far 
from  a  pleasant  one. 

"I   am  surprised,"   declared   Grandmother 

[  147  ] 


THE   GENIUS   OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

with  the  deliberate  phrase  that  seemed  to  come 
oftenest  to  her  lips.  "I  am  truly  surprised.  It 
will  show  you  something,  girls,"  she  added  in 
an  aside,  "about  her  bringing  up.  One  might 
almost  think  that  Caroline  intended  to  make  a 
woman  lawyer,  or  some  equally  dreadful  and 
unfeminine  thing  of  her.  It's  my  impression, 
in  fact,  that  she  does." 

She  selected  several  articles  from  her  work- 
basket  as  she  spoke,  feeling  skilfully  among 
its  contents  with  her  long  fingers ;  and  drawing 
her  chair  a  trifle  nearer  to  the  window,  snipped 
diligently  a  moment  with  her  small  scissors. 

"Since  you  are  so  backward  as  compared  to 
the  average  girl  of  your  age,"  she  lamented,  "I 
presume  I  shall  have  to  take  the  work  in  my 
own  hands.  ...  I  shall  begin  with  the 
bottom  octagon.  The  design  I  select  is  the 
same  that  was  used  in  the  one  you  see  under 
the  hanging  lamp." 

Elizabeth  Anne  turned  her  eyes  mechani- 
cally upon  the  intricate  beaded  creation,  and 
back  to  the  deft  movements  of  the  shining 
needle  in  a  sort  of  fascination. 

"How  many  horrid  things  you  know!"  she 

[148] 


OUR    HEROINE    IS    "TAKEN    IN" 

cried  involuntarily,  with  a  species  of  admira- 
tion she  had  hitherto  reserved  for  some  act  of 
bravado  on  the  part  of  the  Red-Headed  Boy. 

Aunt  Ellen  looked  up  furtively. 

Aunt  Virginia  toyed  with  her  chain,  and  bit 
her  lip. 

Grandmother  started  vexedly,  dropping  her 
pea-green  skein  to  the  floor. 

"Your  bringing  up  is  beyond  my  compre- 
hension," she  said  directly  this  time.  "Let  me 
show  you  what  I  had  accomplished  at  your 
age." 

She  laid  the  cardboard  octagons  methodi- 
cally upon  the  table,  and  rising,  opened  a 
drawer  from  which  she  drew  forth  a  parcel 
wrapped  in  faded  tissue-paper,  from  the  en- 
veloping folds  of  which  fell  yard  upon  yard 
of  wide,  fine-meshed,  knitted  lace,  ecru-hued 
with  age. 

"I  made  this  in  a  time  of  illness,"  she  added 
reminiscently,  "and  my  eyes,  I  dare  say,  were 
far  weaker  than  yours,  for  they  have  been 
troublesome  for  many  years." 

Elizabeth  Anne  looked  up  commiseratingly. 

[  149] 


THE   GENIUS    OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

Having  found  her  tongue,  she  was  seized  with 
a  rash  desire  to  use  it. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  soberly,  shaking  her 
head  in  a  little  chiding  fashion  borrowed  from 
Caroline,  "you  ought  to  have  been  more 
careful!" 

It  was  such  a  politely  offered  remark,  that 
it  was  not  easy  to  see  how  it  could  go  very  far 
astray,  but  again  there  was  that  peculiar  bat- 
tery of  eyes,  and  this  time  Aunt  Ellen  coughed 
and  rose  to  get  a  drink,  and  Grandmother  and 
Aunt  Virginia  sighed  and  exchanged  glances, 
and  murmured  something  about  the  fruits  of 
disobedience. 

Matters  did  not  seem  very  much  inclined  to 
simplify  themselves  just  then,  nor  did  they 
evince  any  tendency  in  that  direction  in  the 
days  to  come.  The  harder  the  small  fluttering 
fingers  worked,  the  larger  grew  the  heap  of 
mutilated  cardboard,  and  the  more  desolate 
the  general  outlook. 

But  still  the  work  went  on  with  brief  inter- 
missions. 

Between  times,  there  were  much  debated 
wardrobe  changes  to  be  made.  Grandmother 

[150] 


OUR    HEROINE    IS    "TAKEN    IN" 

was  imperative  in  this  matter.  Bright  colors 
and  gewgaws,  she  said,  were  not  for  the  chil- 
dren of  those  in  meagre  circumstances.  She 
tapped  the  pamphlet  of  the  B.  L.  S.  L. 
as  she  said  it,  and  drew  down  her  mouth, 
so  that  innumerable  little  fine  lines  appeared 
at  either  side  of  it.  They  fostered  wrong  ideas 
and  desires  that,  since  they  could  not  be  legiti- 
mately gratified,  would  seek  gratification  in 
undesirable  ways,  she  continued,  forgetting 
that  she  was  not  before  the  Society. 

And  then,  when  she  had  found  her  notebook, 
and  jotted  down  a  few  sentences,  she  remem- 
bered, very  fortunately  she  said,  a  little  plain 
brown  linen  dress  of  Virginia's  with  shoes  and 
bonnet  to  match,  that  were  fully  as  good  as 
new,  though  they  had  been  stored  away  in  the 
attic  for  years. 


[151] 


ELIZABETH    RELINQUISHES 
HER  "  SASSIETY  TOGS  " 


X 


ELIZABETH    RELINQUISHES 
HER  "  SASSIETY  TOGS  " 

With  a  very  few  changes  the  quaint  little 
demure-setting  garments  fitted  their  new 
wearer  as  if  they  had  been  made  for  her,  but 
the  blood  rose  quite  to  her  temples  as  she  gazed 
at  herself  so  clad  in  the  long  glass. 

It  seemed  a  very  different  girl  she  found 
reflected  there,  and  one  she  felt  at  once  she 
could  never  like,  to  say  nothing  of  the  verdict 
of  the  home  folks.  Already  in  imagination 
she  could  hear  Belle  O'Hara's  jibe,  "Shure  an' 
phat  become  av  th'  tumble  grand  sassiety 
togs?" 

"Doesn't  Robert  have  to  have  any — any  dif- 
f'rent  clothes  at  all?"  she  ventured  at  length, 
in  a  desperate  endeavor  to  divert  attention 
from  herself. 

But  the  three,  to  all  intents  and  purposes, 
felt  incompetent  to  attempt  anything  in  this 
line.  They  had  other  plans  for  Robert,  it  de- 
[155] 


THE   GENIUS    OF   ELIZABETH    ANNE 

veloped,  plans  that  consigned  him  to  bed  for 
the  greater  part  of  a  day,  while  his  clothes  re- 
ceived proper  laundry  attentions.  He  adopted 
new  habits  of  life  with  much  greater  ease  than 
did  his  sister,  however,  and  lay  calmly  wrapped 
in  a  broad  nightgown,  staring  at  the  ceiling  and 
the  pattern  of  the  wall-paper,  until  he  fell  into 
a  comfortable  doze. 

"We're  going  home,  home,  tomorrow,  do  you 
hear?"  whispered  Elizabeth  Anne,  pouncing 
in  and  seizing  him  by  the  shoulder.  "Mother's 
written,  an' — don't  you  ever  dare  t'  tell — I'm 
singin'  like  a  bird  inside !  It  wasn't  a  single  bit 
better  'n  th'  measles  1" 

It  is  not  impossible  that  the  sentiment,  like 
other  sentiments  of  this  nature,  was  not  con- 
fined to  one  side  of  the  case,  for  early  next 
morning  the  three  hostesses,  a  pleasing  vision 
of  duty  well  done  illuminating  their  faces,  de- 
posited their  young  guests  on  a  depot  bench 
an  hour  before  train  time,  and  departed  on  a 
marketing  expedition  with  a  parting  injunc- 
tion to  "be  good." 

Now,  clearly,  it  is  impossible  to  be  anything 
but  good  on  a  stiff-backed  depot  bench  for 
V  [156] 


ELIZABETH    RENOUNCES    "  SASSIETY  " 

sixty  solid  minutes,  the  penance  inflicted  being 
sufficient  for  any  sin  outside  the  seven  deadly 
and  mortal  category. 

The  clickety-click  of  the  busy  telegraphic 
apparatus  was  confusing;  the  strangeness  of 
the  place  seemed  vast  and  bewildering;  the  re- 
sponsibility was  terrific.  Two  youthful  heads 
leaned  despondently  against  the  wall  before  it 
was  over ;  two  pairs  of  small  arms  hung  limply, 
and  dejection  forced  itself  even  into  the  desul- 
tory conversation  maintained  solely  for  the 
benefit  of  the  agent. 

"I  don't  b'lieve  the  train's  ever  comin'," 
mourned  Robert,  almost  in  his  sister's  nervous 
key,  by  reason  of  the  unaccustomed  stiffness 
of  the  gingham  neckband  that  was  all  but 
throttling  him.  "Ask  the  man,  Betty,  how 
much  longer  it '11  be."  1  ^\ 

Elizabeth  Anne  sprang  up  determinedly, 
and  lurched  forward  on  her  wobbly  heels.  Her 
feet,  being  the  only  generous  portion  of  her 
anatomy,  were  protesting  feverishly  at  their 
incommodious  housing. 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  where  the  train  is?" 

[157] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

she  asked  vaguely  with  assumed  coolness, 
stretching  herself  to  her  full  height. 

The  agent  lifted  his  head,  and  the  glimmer 
of  a  smile  shone  in  his  eyes,  a  smile  that 
promptly  evolved  itself  into  a  chuckle  at  nearer 
sight  of  the  woebegone  travelers. 

"You  needn't  laugh!"  indignantly  protested 
the  questioner,  again  rising  on  tiptoe.  "I 
don't  always  wear  a  bonnet  an'  dress  like  this. 
When  I  travel  I  usu'lly  wear  blue,  an'  I've  got 
th'  1-loviest  string  o'  pink  beads  in  my  parcel!" 
Her  lips  began  to  quiver  uncontrollably,  and 
the  lower  one  rolled  out  so  piteously  that  the 
man's  good-natured,  puzzled  face  sobered  at 
once. 

"There,  there,"  he  said,  amiably  enough, 
"don't  worry,  little  girl.  Where  do  you  want 
t'  go?  To  Cull  Prairie,  you  say?  And  you 
have  the  tickets?  Why,  I  haven't  the  least 
doubt  in  the  world,  you'll  get  there  before  you 
know  it  without  a  bit  of  trouble." 

And  contrary  to  the  expectations  of  both 
children,  his  words  proved  true,  for  in  due  time 
they  set  foot  again  in  their  native  town,  which 
never  before  had  looked  half  so  attractive. 

[168] 


ELIZABETH    RENOUNCES    "  SASSIETY  " 

"Here  comes  Tim  an'  Billy  an'  Terrence 
with  their  slates!"  shouted  Robert,  whirling  on 
his  heel  like  an  enthused  dervish.  "I  b'lieve  I 
like  school.  I  hope  we  can  go  tomorrow." 
This  was  a  hitherto  undreamed  of  attitude  on 
his  part. 

Elizabeth  Anne's  mind  was  occupied  with 
another  train  of  thought.  "They  sha'n't  ever 
see  me  like  this,"  she  said,  anxiously  untying 
the  sombre  strings  of  her  newly  acquired  bon- 
net, and  dodging  between  the  loose  boards  of  a 
near-by  fence.  "Come,  get  behind  here  with 
me  quick,  Robert  Langdon,  an'  don't  you  say 
a  word." 

But,  though  his  brotherly  haste  was  all  that 
could  be  desired,  a  round  cap,  tilted  slightly 
backward,  appeared  shortly  over  the  top  board 
of  the  fence,  and  two  brown  surprised  eyes,  set 
in  a  golden  spattering  of  freckles,  peered  down 
interestedly.  They  belonged  to  the  Red- 
Headed  Boy,  who  often  strayed  thus  investi- 
gatingly  from  his  kind. 

"Sh-sh!"  cautioned  Elizabeth  Anne,  recog- 
nizing him  with  relief,  and  tapping  her  lips 
with  a  warning  forefinger.  "You  get  right 

[159] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

down  an'  go  ahead  jus'  as  if  you  hadn't  seen  a 
thing!" 

"All  right,"  he  promised  with  ready  loyalty, 
though  having  not  the  slightest  idea  of  the 
occasion  for  secrecy,  and  he  slid  down  without 
a  question  and  proceeded  thoughtfully  on  his 
way. 

The  motioning  fugitive  looked  after  him 
gratefully;  then,  having  waited  until  the  coast 
was  clear,  she  seized  Robert's  hand,  and  fairly 
dragged  him,  in  her  haste,  the  remainder  of 
the  way  home. 

Caroline,  kneeling  beside  the  baby's  crib  with 
a  tiny  blanket  in  her  hands,  looked  up  with 
alarm  as  they  darted  through  the  door,  start- 
ling into  flight  the  calico  kitten  which  had  been 
licking  her  paws  in  prophecy  of  "company." 

"Dear,  dear,  what  is  the  trouble?"  she  begged 
with  a  single  embrace  for  both.  "Are  you 
frightened  or  hurt  in  any  way?  Answer  me, 
Betty!  Quick!" 

But  Elizabeth  Anne's  overstrained  nerves 
had  given  way,  and  the  tears  rolled  silently 
down  her  cheeks.  "Here,  mother,"  she  said 
when  she  could  speak,  solemnly  extending  the 

[160] 


ELIZABETH    RENOUNCES    "  SASSIETY  " 

little  brown  bonnet  and  the  unfrilled  waist  out 
of  which  she  had  managed  to  slip,  "you  can  sell 
these  tomorrow  to  the  ragman  —  if  he'll  take 


"Why,  why!"  exclaimed  Caroline,  wrinkling 
her  smooth  brow,  and  feeling  as  if  she  had 
laid  down  her  last  sacrifice  on  the  home  altar, 
and  the  fire  had  refused  to  consume  it.  "Did 
Grandmother  make  them  for  you,  and  is  this 
the  way  you  feel  about  it?  What  can  be  the 
matter?" 

Her  unrepentant  daughter  wiped  the  big 
tears  off  her  chin. 

"I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  her, 
for  sure,"  she  deliberated,  unconsciously  mis- 
interpreting the  last  question,  "but  I  think  — 
I'm  almost  afraid,  mother"  —  an  epithet  from 
a  past  experience  flashing  upon  her  mind  — 
"I'm  almost  afraid  she's  a  German!" 
*  *  * 

Did  you  ever  achieve  an  unsought  distinc- 
tion? 

Perhaps  you  have,  and  marveled  for  many 
days  at  the  greatness  thrust  upon  you. 

Perhaps  it  even  went  so  far  as  to  mark  an 

[161] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

epoch  on  your  way,  as  it  did  in  the  case  of 
Elizabeth  Anne,  and  then  you  marveled  still 
more  and  resented  it  a  little  too,  no  doubt,  to 
think  that  what  you  had  deemed  the  high  and 
golden  roadway  upon  which  your  feet  had  been 
set  should  receive  its  markings,  casually,  as 
from  the  first  little  stray  white  pebbles  in  the 
hand  of  Fate. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  standing  at  the  close  of  a 
long  vacation  on  the  threshold  of  the  Third 
Reader  Class,  as  a  discoverer  on  the  shadowy 
green  rim  of  an  unexplored  world,  hugging  her 
f  ringy  burlap  schoolbag  to  her  thin  little  breast, 
and  shaking  her  short  locks,  now  bound  in  a 
fillet  sharply  defining  her  pale  blond  crown, 
attributed  it  all,  simply  enough,  to  the  pin  that 
had  glinted  up  at  her,  point  foremost,  on  her 
solitary  way  that  morning,  from  the  dusty, 
weedgrown  stretch  of  sidewalk,  and  which  she 
had  saluted  in  grave  and  priestly  monotone: 

"Find  a  pin  and  pick  it  up,  and  all  that  day 
you'll  have  good  luck." 

If  the  point  were  directed  from  one,  accord- 
ing to  Belle  O'Hara,  one  might  as  well  relin- 
quish all  hope  of  the  good  fortune  that  was 

[162] 


ELIZABETH    RENOUNCES    "  SASSIETY  " 

otherwise  his  due ;  it  dissipated  one's  luck  alto- 
gether, or  at  best  pointed  it  compromisingly  to 
fields  afar. 

Now  the  last  days  of  vacation  had  brought 
(so  carefully  interlarded  are  the  distinctions 
and  their  reverses  in  this  life)  a  first  skeleton 
to  the  Langdon  family  closet,  a  very  small  and 
insignificant  creature  of  its  kind,  to  be  sure, 
but  demanding,  for  all  that,  its  full  share  of  the 
trappings  of  secrecy. 

The  fact  was,  the  period  had  threatened 
seriously,  and  with  boldly  increasing  insistence, 
to  be  one  of  the  leanest  of  their  lean  times, 
when  David,  in  the  restlessness  of  a  day  of  en- 
forced leisure,  had  come  within  gunshot  of  an 
overbold  raccoon  in  a  neighboring  woodlot,  and 
solved  the  problem  of  meat  to  the  complete 
satisfaction  of  all  concerned,  until  it  was  acci- 
dentally discovered  that  the  O'Haras,  who  ate 
practically  everything  in  the  food  line  that 
would  bear  mastication,  considered  this  animal 
too  "gamey"  for  their  consumption. 

Thereupon  descended  the  curtain  of  dark- 
ness, and  the  guilty  partakers  of  the  feast 
walked  aloof  lest  they  betray  the  secret,  and 
[163] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

guarded  their  lips  with  a  discretion  as  difficult 
as  it  was  new. 

The  weight  of  the  responsibility  sat  heavily 
on  the  elder-sister  mind  of  Elizabeth  Anne. 
Not  altogether  for  the  one  little  bony  intruder, 
but  rather  that  the  one  lent  validity  to  the  fear, 
since  timidly  harbored  by  her  against  her  will, 
that  there  might  be  others  lurking  about  in 
corners — others  less  readily  understood,  more 
terrible. 

There  was  a  Mortgage,  she  knew — a  Thing 
never  spoken  of  save  in  a  whisper — a  continu- 
ally hungry  Thing,  that  held  out  both  hands 
and  cried,  "Give,  give,"  when  there  was  nothing 
to  give. 

Belle  O'Hara,  who  seemed  never  to  lack  for 
information  on  any  subject,  and  who  had  excel- 
lent reasons  for  being  on  intimate  terms  with 
this,  said  it  meant  that  "somebody  had  a  clutch 
on  yer  ownin's." 

She  said  it  was  a  pity  when  a  man  "couldn't 
have  his  own  shanty."  It  was  not  a  pretty  word, 
"shanty."  Why  could  not  Belle  have  said 
house,  or  home?  Minnie  Bird  was  much  given 
to  saying  "my  home,"  but  then  there  was  a 

[164] 


ELIZABETH    RENOUNCES    "  SASSIETY  " 

wide,  white-painted  piazza,  all  around  the  place 
where  she  lived,  and  a  staircase,  and  Minnie's 
charming  apple-blossom-tinted  bedroom. 

Elizabeth  Anne  had  been  permitted  a 
glimpse  of  it,  once,  on  an  errand,  and  that  night 
it  had  rained  and  a  bit  of  the  plastering  had 
fallen  down  in  her  own  bedroom,  and  next 
morning  there  was  a  grimy  puddle  on  the  bare 
floor  near  the  bed. 

It  was  natural,  after  all,  that  such  a  shrink- 
age in  dignity  should  be  marked  by  a  cor- 
responding shrinkage  in  terms. 

And  Belle  had  not  meant  it  unkindly.  She 
had  added  that,  for  herself,  she  was  "sick  av 
the  Thing  that  was  atin'  'em  aloive,"  and  that, 
some  day,  she  was  going  to  marry,  and  "be  rid 
av  it  all  f 'rivermore." 

"Oi'd  a  fure  lafe  clover,  yistiday,  in  me 
shoe,"  she  elaborated  with  a  coy  flutter  of  her 
skirts,  "an'  who  sh'u'd  Oi  mate,  comin'  down 
th'  thracks,  but  Jimmy  Hannon  an'  Tim 
O'Neil?  O'im  takin'  it  t'  mane  that  Oi  c'n  hov 
me  pick  av  th'  pair  f'r  a  mon,  though  'tis 
throublin'  me  sore  which  wan  av  th'  twain  Oi'll 
be  pickin'." 

[165] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

Her  troubled  confidante  was  aware  of  a  little, 
unanalyzed  shiver  that  seized  her  at  the  mem- 
ory of  this  speech.  It  had  a  sound,  somehow, 
of  future  rattling.  It  was  limiting,  hounding, 
depressing.  But  she  was  glad  of  the  Third 
Reader  Class  and  the  omen  of  a  properly- 
directed  pin  point  ahead. 


[166] 


ELIZABETH    WRITES    FOR   THE 

"  SUN  " 


XI 

ELIZABETH  WRITES  FOR  THE 

"SUN"  1 

It  was  in  the  Third  Reader  Class  that  a 
wonderful  thing  was  to  happen. 

One  could  almost  have  guessed  that  it  would 
by  the  important  appearance  of  that  section 
of  the  school. 

Gone  were  the  infantile  June  flower-garden 
array  of  immense  parti-colored  hair  bows,  the 
pink  curves,  the  enchanting  dimples,  the  tooth- 
less smiles  of  the  first  and  second  years. 

The  Third  Readers  were  lean  and  angular 
and  sinewy ;  long  exposure  to  vacation  suns  had 
put  into  the  transparent  brownness  of  their 
eager  faces  a  variety  of  freckle  decoration  un- 
known to  tenderer  years,  and  here  and  there 
glinted  a  spark  of  wickedness  in  eyes  that  had 
known  hitherto  only  artlessness  and  unblink- 
ing sincerity. 

To  the  dazzled  orbs  of  the  latest  recruit 

[169] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

peeping  at  them  from  behind  Miss  Barlow's 
stately,  ushering  back  they  looked  almost 
grown-up. 

Furthermore,  adding  to  their  importance,  in 
the  hand  of  each  pupil  was  a  handsome,  little, 
red-covered  book,  which,  it  appeared,  unlike 
the  autograph  album,  there  was  no  necessity 
of  hiding,  since,  joy  of  joys,  all  the  bright 
covers  were  presently  resplendent  in  the  clear 
wave  of  sunshine  which  streamed  freely  into 
this  room. 

Afterward  it  came  to  light  that  these  books, 
while  small,  had  the  high-sounding  name  of 
dictionary — a  term  one  delighted  to  dandle 
before  one's  lower-grade  friends. 

The  Third  Reader  teacher,  in  sharp  contrast 
to  the  lady  in  the  room  adjoining,  had  wide- 
open  gray  eyes,  and  was  very  short  and  alert 
and  busy. 

Her  teeth  were  over-prominent  and  she 
smiled  a  great  deal,  but  her  dull  orange  chemi- 
sette and  sprightly  unexpected  movements, 
that  made  her  not  unlike  a  joyous  springtime 
robin,  were  clearly  the  admiration  of  her 

[170] 


ELIZABETH  WRITES  A  POEM 

thirty-odd  beholders  as  she  hopped  with  bird- 
like  agility  to  the  blackboard,  where  boldly- 
white  words  at  once  began  framing  themselves 
with  squeaking  precision  under  her  new  and 
energetic  crayon,  to  the  tune  of  a  gradually 
swelling  chorus  of  pronunciation. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  lifting  her  voice  on  high  in 
the  general  fervor,  gloried  in  the  effort. 

For  her,  mere  words  had  always  held  an  end- 
less fascination,  and  when  the  chorus  of  pro- 
nunciation had  died  out,  and  the  class  had  been 
given  certain  instructions  anent  a  Composition 
Period  (one  had  a  dizzy  feeling  of  having  all 
but  circumnavigated  the  realm  of  knowledge 
at  very  mention  of  this)  the  spell  refused  to 
depart  from  her,  and  she  sat  with  dreamy  gaze 
fixed  distantly  on  the  slumberous,  cloyingly 
sweet  clover  heads  nodding  without,  her  scarred 
pencil  between  her  teeth,  her  fillet  slipping 
neglectedly  over  one  ear,  her  fingers  strum- 
ming absently  on  the  desk. 

Preliminaries  being  over,  pens  began  to 
scratch  very  stiffly  and  very  industriously  all 
about  her.  Between  whiles,  indignant  glances 

[171] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

came  her  way;  once,  a  friendly,  suggestive 
nudge. 

Wasted  solicitude ! 

The  dreamer  stirred ;  her  small  teeth  relaxed 
their  hold  on  the  ill-treated  pencil ;  at  the  back 
of  her  brain  a  little  inspiration  was  stealing, 
stealing.  It  scorned  the  platitude  of  prose. 
In  sympathy  with  the  droning  bees  in  their 
Bagdad  of  scent  and  color,  it  wanted  to  sing 
itself.  .  .  .  Should  she?  Dared  she? 

The  wobbly  lettered  and  blackly  and  deter- 
minedly punctuated  sheets  on  every  hand  be- 
gan the  flutter  preparatory  to  collection.  The 
time  grew  short,  the  need  urgent.  The  little 
idea  in  desperation  came  forth;  the  paper 
slipped  shyly  and  reluctantly  into  the  Moni- 
tor's fingers.  And  then — and  then — well,  the 
race  is  not  always  to  the  fleet. 

"Well,  now,"  said  the  lady  at  the  desk,  smil- 
ingly, in  her  terse,  business-like  voice,  "Well, 
now!" 

And  on  Elizabeth  Anne's  unbelieving  ears 
fell  the  sound  of  her  own  effort  being  read 
aloud: 

[172] 


ELIZABETH  WRITES  A  POEM 

THE  FAIRY 

Once  there  was  a  little  fairy, 

Very  sweet  and  very  neat, 
And  she  came  and  sat  beside  me, 

Right  beside  me  in  my  seat. 

"  Will  you  help  me,  little  fairy?" 

Said  I,  very  soft  and  low. 
"  Help  yourself,"  then  said  the  fairy, 

And  she  spread  her  wings  to  go. 

"I  shall  use  it  in  the  Cull  Prairie  Sun"  said 
the  Third  Reader  teacher,  becoming  inspired 
in  her  turn.  "Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that 
we  are  to  have  a  column  entitled  'School  Items 
of  Interest.'  I  did  not  ask  for  verse,  but — " 
Her  prominent  teeth  were  much  in  evidence. 

The  Cull  Prairie  Sun,  let  it  be  here  explained, 
was  the  town  newspaper  for  which  Elizabeth 
Anne  had  conceived  an  early  fondness.  It 
was  now  edited  by  the  teacher's  uncle,  no  other 
than  the  "Mr.  Kail  of  the  cloth  ears,"  who  had 
long  had  ambitions  outside  the  clothing  busi- 
ness, but  whose  editorial  ability  was  yet  a  plant 
of  so  frail  a  growth  that  it  needs  must  have 
withered  and  pined  away  altogether,  but  for 
the  petting  and  watering  it  had  at  the  hands  of 
[173] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

this  enterprising  niece,  who  hoped  some  day  to 
be  able  to  assume  the  office  herself. 

And  the  niece's  plan,  in  this  particular  in- 
stance, wrought  wonders  for  Elizabeth  Anne. 

"In  the  newspaper!"  breathed  Caroline 
when,  after  the  lapse  of  a  silent  and  doubting 
week,  this  triumph  was  related  at  home. 
"Surely,  Betty,  you  must  be  mistaken!" 
1  She  sat  down  quite  suddenly,  and  the  pink 
and  white  contended  for  supremacy  in  the  fair 
young  face  she  bent  over  the  baby's. 

"Literary!"  was  her  mental  ejaculation. 
The  vexed  problem  was  solved  at  last.  She 
had  known  that  some  time  it  must  be,  but  she 
felt  almost  bewildered  with  the  unexpected- 
ness of  it.  "Are  you  sure,  child?"  she  repeated 
incredulously. 

It  was  just  here  David  entered  with  the 
freshly  printed  sheet,  reeking  with  printer's 
ink. 

"So  our  little  girl  has  broken  into  print," 
he  said  jocularly,  "and  on  the  subject  of 
fairies." 

"Fairy!"  scoffed  Robert,  running  a  stubby 
forefinger  laboriously  down  the  page.  "Fairy! 

[174] 


ELIZABETH  WRITES  A  POEM 

Shucks!  I'll  bet  'twas  a  mouse  that  smelled 
your  cheese  sandwich!" 

"Mebbe  I  don't  wish  I  wuz  a  poet!"  flut- 
tered Mittie  Peeler,  breaking  in  upon  the 
family  group  with  the  license  of  a  frequent 
caller. 

"Ye'r  soft  enough  'thout,"  growled  "Grand- 
ma" Prouty  at  her  heels.  "Yer  brains  is  that 
watery,  now,  I  c'n  hear  'em  a  slushin'  in  yer 
head.  Not  but  whut,"  with  a  sudden  change  of 
tone,  "I  hev  seen  some  awful  techin'  po'try. 
A  half  nephew  o'  mine  down  t'  Piperstown 
once  wrote  some  ez  'ud  fetch  ye,  an'  no  mis- 
take. Pore  boy,  th'  grave  got  'im  o'  grievin' 
afore  he  wuz  thirty !  Yassir!  'Twas  crossed  in 
love  he  wuz  fer  all  th'  worl'  like  them  story 
book  men  ye  hear  about.  Y'  never  seed  more 
pitiful  grievin'.  'Aunt,'  he'd  say  't  me  on  th' 
side  when  I  wuz  down  thar  avisitin'  his  step- 
ma,  an'  we'd  set  down  of  a  mornin'  fer  a  bit  o' 
meat  pie  an'  a  cup  o'  coffee,  'I'm  atryin'  t' 
starve  myself,  I  am,  but  I  allus  get  too  hun- 
gry.' Well,  them  stiddy  ones  is  desarvin'  o' 
their  vicuals.  Stiddy  worker  in  a  bake-shop 

[175] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

fer  nigh  onto  ten  years,  he  was.  Allus'  aturnin' 
his  hand  t'  somethin'  if  'twas  only  that  po'try- 
mill  o'  hisn.  Why,  sez  he,  once,  sez  he: 

'  Pies  and  cakes,  cakes  and  pies, 
Isabel's  tongue  turns  easy  to  lies.' 

"An'  again,  a-turnin'  th'  crank  'nother  way : 


'  Tarts  an'  doughnuts,  doughnuts  an'  tarts; 
Stun  t'  the  middle  is  some  wimmin's  hearts.' 


"Oh,  'twould  fetch  ye  th'  way  I  sez  'twould 
'thout  ye  wuz  th'  stun-hearted  kind  yerself, 
an'  thar  hain't  'n  awful  lot  o'  them,  not  in  these 
here  parts — be  thar,  Mis'  Langdon?" 

But  Caroline,  who  sat  a  little  apart  with 
misty  eyes  and  dreamily  curving  lips,  did  not 
resume  her  part  in  the  discussion  until  the 
little  group  had  resolved  itself  once  more  into 
a  purely  family  affair. 

"Grandmother  shall  have  a  copy,"  she  said 
then,  her  thoughts  on  the  Cull  Prairie  Sun, 
and  a  curious  note  of  triumph  in  her  voice. 

"H'm,"  said  Elizabeth  Anne  in  the  manner 
[176] 


ELIZABETH  WRITES  A  POEM 

employed  by  Miss  Barlow  in  expressing  a 
doubt. 

"She  can  scallop  it,  an'  put  it  on  a  pantry 
shelf,"  cheerfully  suggested  Aunt  Sarah,  who 
had  been  waiting  for  the  chance  ever  since  her 
arrival. 

Whereat  David  wrinkled  the  corners  of  his 
eyes,  and  submitted  nothing. 

Nevertheless,  Grandmother  received  her 
copy  almost  before  the  all-pervading  inky  odor 
had  died  out  of  it,  and  her  recognition  of  the 
achievement,  which  arrived  in  the  course  of 
time,  was  only  a  little  less  prim  than  the  famous 
verses  themselves. 

"I  am  much  pleased,"  she  wrote  in  her  accu- 
rate hand,  "to  learn  that  the  child  is  doing  well 
in  school.  I  should  be  more  pleased  to  learn 
that  she  was  progressing  with  her  needle,  in 
which  work  she  seems  more  than  ordinarily  de- 
ficient. Your  cousin  Matthew's  little  Editha, 
four  years  younger  than  she,  as  you  know, 
only  last  week  finished  a  Sun-in-glory  bed- 
quilt  that  is  really  a  credit  to  the  family." 

Caroline,  reading  the  letter  aloud,  stopped 
short  at  this  portion  of  it.  Somewhere,  rank- 

[177] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

ling  in  her  heart,  was  a  hidden  fear  of  a  certain 
justice  in  Grandmother's  criticism.  But  a 
swift,  reactionary  rush  of  feeling  dimmed  her 
eyes.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  any  child 
could  develop  to  suit  everyone's  fancy.  That 
reluctant,  meagre  bit  of  praise  showed  only  an 
unrelenting  spirit.  And  the  dimness  became 
two  glistening  drops  on  the  reader's  long 
lashes. 

"Don't  cry,  mother!"  urged  Elizabeth  Anne, 
laying  her  soft,  brown  cheek  of  a  sudden  very 
tenderly  against  the  hand  that  held  the  letter. 
"She  said  I  didn't  know  how  to  make  an  air- 
castle,"  with  unwonted  penetration.  "I  knew 
she  would  say  it,  but  never  mind." 

"Oh,  dear  child,"  half  sobbed  Caroline  out 
of  her  simple,  overfilled  heart,  "promise  me 
that  always  you  will  think,  work,  study !  Noth- 
ing shall  stand  in  your  way.  Some  day  Grand- 
mother, yes,  and  the  world  perhaps,  may  be 
glad  to  read  what  you  have  written !" 


[178] 


ELIZABETH  BASKS  IN  FAME'S 
LIGHT 


XII 

ELIZABETH  BASKS  IN  FAME'S 
LIGHT 

Elizabeth  Anne  did  not  wholly  understand 
the  source  of  the  storm ;  neither  did  she  know 
exactly  what  was  required  of  her,  save  that  it 
was  something  that  was  to  bring  great  happi- 
ness to  this  dear  soul  who  had  so  long  brooded 
watchfully  over  her,  waiting  for  she  knew  not 
what.  But  she  gave  her  promise  in  all  faith, 
and  the  vow  stood  between  mother  and 
daughter. 

"I  will,"  she  said  firmly,  her  small  jaw  set 
with  determination,  her  eyes  deeply  gray  with 
stirring  purpose. 

And  she  carried  her  head  high  with  uncom- 
fortable consciousness  for  a  week,  remembering 
the  promise,  and  the  blink  of  a  second  silver 
piece  from  Mr.  Kail  (whose  periodic  visits  she 
did  not  yet  know  had  to  do  with  the  Mort- 
gage) and  being  aware  that  several  times  she 
had  been  pointed  out  by  different  persons  in 

[181] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

the  street  as  "the  little  girl  whose  verses  were 
published  in  the  newspaper." 

Somehow  it  seemed  necessary  to  live  up  to 
their  expectations — a  task  that  soon,  very  soon, 
became  almost  as  distasteful  as  the  kiss  Mr. 
Kail,  with  his  thick  lip  and  thick,  bulbous  nose, 
had  this  time  demanded  for  his  coin. 

Fame  even  in  Cull  Prairie,  Cull  Prairie  of 
the  unassuming  Middle  West,  has  its  draw- 
backs, you  will  observe.  And  the  worst  was 
yet  to  come! 

There  was  a  butcher's  son  in  the  Third 
Reader  Class,  a  pale-faced  boy  with  sore  eyes 
and  a  crippled  foot,  who  conceived  a  deep  dis- 
like for  Elizabeth  Anne  and  the  productions 
of  her  stubby  pencil. 

Who  was  she  to  be  the  recipient  of  any  mark 
of  honor?  Why,  he  could  "add  in  his  head," 
while  she  was  obliged  to  count  her  foolish  little 
fingers,  for  had  he  not  often  caught  her  in  the 
act! 

And  his  father  had  money,  while  hers  was 
as  poor  as  the  most  lorn  and  pining  church 
mouse.  It  was  high  time,  he  considered,  that 

[182] 


IN    FAME'S    LIGHT 

the  circumstances  in  the  case  were  properly 
adjusted. 

So  he  taunted  the  author  of  the  verses  on 
every  possible  occasion,  hobbling  unexpectedly 
out  of  corners  and  alleyways  with  some  thrust. 

"Fairy-chaser"  was  his  favorite  characteriza- 
tion of  her,  and  because  of  its  reference  to  a 
subject  about  which  she  was  daily  becoming 
more  sensitive,  the  shaft  sank  deep. 

"Hush,  hush,"  urged  Caroline  soothingly, 
when  the  victim  of  this  unique  term  sought 
sympathy  tempestuously  against  her  breast. 
"Poor  Willie  has  a  twisted  foot,  and  to  be 
obliged  to  walk  in  that  way  makes  him  cross 
and  unpleasant." 

"God  got  his  head  on  all  right,"  observed 
Elizabeth  Anne  after  a  pause,  in  temporary 
forgetfulness  of  her  grievance.  "With  just 
a  little  more  care — "  she  stopped  significantly, 
as  was  the  habit  of  the  Third  Reader  teacher 
in  repeating  this  phrase.  "And,  oh,  mother," 
in  sudden  confession,  "I  don't  believe  I 
blame  him  very  much  for  making  fun  of 
those  verses.  They've  got  as  jingly  in  my  head 
as  a  stone  in  a  tin  can.  Just  wait,  mother,  till 

[183] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

I  have  a  chance  to  write  a  real  story,  and  then 
you  shall  see!" 

But  Caroline  was  fated  not  to  "see,"  though 
in  due  course  the  "real  story"  burst  into  bloom, 
and  lifted  its  head  in  gleeful  abandon. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  it  began  in  accepted 
fashion,  "there  was  a  beautiful  girl  named 
Genneveve.  [The  writer  delighted  in  this 
name.]  She  had  dark  curls  and  luvely  eyes  an 
cheeks  as  red  as  Mercedees.  But  she  was  a 
disbeedent  girl.  By  disbeedent  we  mean  do- 
ing things  your  granmother  tells  you  not  to 
do.  An  one  day  there  was  an  apple  pie  in  the 
pantry  and  Genneveve  begged  for  a  piece,  but 
they  told  her  to  wait  till  dinner.  Stead  of  wait- 
ing though  she  ate  all  she  could  when  nobody 
was  looking,  an  after  that  she  felt  so  ashamed  of 
herself  she  ran  outside,  an  jus  kep  on  running 
an  running  till  she  fell  into  a  big  pit  and  died. 
But  she  looked  awful  white  an  grand  in  her 
coffin  and  everybody  cried  a  lot.  An  my 
mother  was  disbeedent  my  granmother  says 
an  she  is  reeping  the  fruits  but  I  never  see  any 
of  them." 

Here  the  Third  Reader  teacher,  whose  eye 

[184] 


IN    FAME'S    LIGHT      . 

had  traveled  hastily  over  the  page  as  she  col- 
lected the  compositions,  coughed  unnecessarily, 
her  handkerchief  to  her  lips.  Later,  during 
the  recess  period,  Elizabeth  Anne  coming 
softly  back  to  the  room  for  a  forgotten  apple, 
saw  her  re-reading  it.  The  handkerchief  was 
tucked  in  her  belt  now,  and  it  was  plain  that 
she  laughed.  There  was  a  little  group  of  teach- 
ers from  the  adjoining  rooms,  about  her,  and 
it  was  equally  plain  that  they  were  laughing, 
too. 

A  sharp  doubt  smote  the  soul  of  Elizabeth 
Anne,  and  she  went  back  the  way  she  had  come, 
wondering. 

"I  hope  your  little  story  was  a  success  to- 
day," said  Caroline  tentatively  at  bedtime, 
hesitant  always  to  force  even  the  simplest  con- 
fidence. 

"Oh,  yes,"  assented  Elizabeth  Anne  without 
enthusiasm,  "most  of  the  teachers  read  it." 

"What  was  it  about?"  begged  Caroline,  car- 
ried away  for  the  moment,  and  leaning  her 
round  young  arms  eagerly  on  the  bed.  "Were 
they  pleased  with  it?" 

"It  was  about  a  girl  that  died" — uncompro- 

[185] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

misingly.  "I  guess  they  liked  it  'cause  they 
laughed." 

"Smiled,  you  mean,  don't  you,  Betty?  Peo- 
ple laugh  only  when  they  are  amused.  It  was 
not  an  amusing  story,  I  should  judge." 

"They  smiled  real  noisy  then,"  said  Eliza- 
beth Anne  a  little  grimly. 

"I  wish  that  I  might  see  the  story,"  mur- 
mured Caroline  wistfully. 

But  the  memory  of  a  certain  passage  sent 
the  hot  blood  to  the  brow  of  the  writer.  It 
struck  her  suddenly  as  uncalled  for  and 
disloyal. 

"I  never  can  show  it  to  you,"  she  said  stoutly. 

And  to  Caroline  it  was  left,  as  to  the  dear 
mothers  of  all  times,  to  keep  these  things  and 
ponder  them  in  her  heart. 


[186] 


A  SHADOW  OF  TRAGEDY 


XIII 
A  SHADOW  OF  TRAGEDY 

When  Elizabeth  Anne  was  twelve,  she 
brushed  the  skirts  of  Tragedy,  a  personage  of 
whose  grim  face  she  had  never  dreamed,  whose 
very  existence  indeed  she  had  never  guessed. 

With  one's  days,  so  far,  only  little  pearly 
spans  of  daylight,  strung  together  like  a  daisy 
chain,  golden  heart  on  golden  heart,  snowy 
petal  on  snowy  petal,  how  could  one  know, 
how  could  one  guess? 

Surely  by  nothing  writ  on  land  or  sky  in 
all  the  clear  autumnal  script  that  spread  just 
then  from  horizon  to  horizon — the  bluish  haze, 
the  burnished  fields,  the  sloven  thistle's  ragged 
purple,  the  milkweed's  satin  darted  fluff,  the 
barbaric  finery  of  a  thousand  sumacs. 

Surely  by  nothing  spelt  in  the  quiet  peace  of 
the  woodroad,  the  idle  chatter  of  a  school 
turned  loose,  the  overhanging  bushes,  the  moist 
and  satiny  hazelnuts  that  fell  with  satisfied 

[189] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

clatter  into  sundry  welcoming  and  capacious 
dinner  buckets. 

It  was  a  long,  long  road,  the  woodroad,  and 
laggard  feet  did  not  tend  to  shorten  it. 

The  steady  rat-tat-tat  of  the  enterprising 
nut  fall  went  on.  Sticky  fingers  disengaging 
the  loot  from  the  scalloped,  greenish-brown 
nests  of  its  hiding  waxed  ambitious  and  more 
ambitious.  The  sun  crept  lower,  the  bird- 
song  drowzed,  the  air  grew  strong  and  sweet 
and  cooler. 

Plough  horses,  weary  of  their  stint,  stopped 
in  the  long,  rich,  black  furrows,  dropping  their 
sombre  faithful  heads  easefully,  or  reaching  out 
now  and  again  to  the  surrounding  greenness 
for  a  succulent  mouthful.  Twittering  squirrels 
debated  with  each  other  concerning  the  intru- 
sion. A  mild-eyed  rabbit  in  his  lair  awaited 
patiently  his  opportunity  to  fare  forth  on  a 
supper  expedition.  Idle  waiting!  Still  only 
an  endless  stream  of  stupid,  foreign  chatter, 
still  only  rat-tat-tat-tat ! 

Already,  over  and  beyond  the  most  distant 
scattering  of  houses,  were  sullen  reddish 
streaks,  the  first  fires  of  an  early  sunset,  when 
-,  [190] 


A   SHADOW    OF    TRAGEDY 

the  sheepish  vanguard  of  the  peace-destroying 
crew  at  last  wended  its  reluctant  way  into 
O'Hara  Street. 

;  'Tis  avenin',"  said  Belle  O'Hara  informa- 
tively, breaking  the  weft  of  their  enchantment. 
"An'  now  what?"  with  a  whimsical  wag  of 
her  head  on  which,  adult  fashion,  the  crow-blue 
hair  was  of  late  bunched  with  a  single  rusty 
hairpin. 

'Tain't  nuthin'  t'  me,"  boasted  plump  Joy 
Peeler,  whose  sleepy  lashes  and  placid  red 
mouth  belied  the  tragic  intensity  of  her  big, 
black  eyes.  "Ma's  abed  with  the  rheumatiz, 
an'  Aunt  Mit's  as  soft  as  spoon-victuals  over 
me.  Anyhow,  I  hain't  never  had  nobody  lay 
a  finger  on  me  yet,  an'  I  don't  reckon  I'm  ever 
agoin'  t'." 

"Ner  me,"  quaveringly  chimed  in  the  Lit- 
tlest Girl  with  the  mottled  nose  and  the  stiff, 
skimpy  braids. 

"Ner  me,"  soberly  seconded  the  cross-eyed 
Carney  twin  with  the  blue  welt  across  her 
fingers. 

"Ner  me,"  echoed  Elizabeth  Anne,  deter- 
mined to  be  in  the  running. 
[191] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

Thud,  thud,  thud,  went  half  a  dozen  pairs  of 
padding  youthful  feet,  mending  the  pace,  and 
thud,  thud,  thud,  went  half  the  number  of  small 
repentant  hearts.  A  wrathy  hen  with  chicks 
darted  scoldingly  across  the  road  before  them, 
and  settled  herself  anew.  Grandma  Prouty's 
guinea  fowls  set  up  a  shrill  reproachful  shriek- 
ing. The  Langdon  kitchen  windows,  catching 
the  far  gleams  in  the  west,  delicate  as  the  heart 
of  a  golden  crocus,  gave  back  the  light  coldly 
like  a  sheet  of  tin.  "An'  where's  Tiny  Ruth?" 
suddenly  cried  Belle,  gaping  open-mouthed 
at  a  certain  oft-sought  window,  and  uncon- 
sciously sounding  the  first  note  of  the  tragedy. 

"An'  where's  Tiny  Ruth?"  demanded  fat 
Joy,  her  hands  in  her  apron  pockets. 

"An'  where's  Tiny  Ruth?"  piped  the  Littlest 
Girl  and  the  Carney  twins  in  concert,  stopping 
short  in  their  tracks. 

But  this  time  Elizabeth  Anne  said  no  word. 
So  limned  on  her  consciousness  was  the  little 
figure  that,  early  or  late,  had  there  awaited 
her  coming,  it  seemed  that  almost  she  could 
conjure  it  up  out  of  nothing.  The  glowing 
eyes.  The  delicate  precision  of  contour.  The 

[192] 


A    SHADOW    OF    TRAGEDY 

half-opened  baby  lips.  The  little  gaily  waved 
hand.  Words  were  poor  things  to  describe 
Tiny  Ruth. 

By  some  subtle  essence  in  her  wee  pliant 
body  she  might  have  held  the  whole  world  cap- 
tive. She  dimpled,  and  you  smiled  in  spite  of 
yourself,  looking  down  on  the  warm  sunniness 
of  her  hair.  The  lilac  gray  of  her  soft  eyes 
clouded,  and  you  turned  away  to  hide  an  ab- 
surd mist  in  your  own.  From  the  upsweep  of 
her  silken  lashes  to  the  waxen  fiowerlikeness 
of  her  dainty  sole  she  was  a  princess,  yes,  and 
a  regally  contented  princess,  born. 

What  if  the  little  hand  that  held  the  sceptre 
were  frail  to  a  pitiful  transparency — nobody 
ever  had  the  heart  to  put  the  truth  into  words. 

What  if  the  little  feet  faltered  now  and  then 
in  their  self-appointed  journeyings,  refusing  to 
uphold  the  huddled  babyish  heap  on  the  hearth 
rug — it  was  so  quickly  smoothed  over  that 
a  stranger,  observing,  might  have  imagined 
himself  mistaken. 

What  if  a  Grim  Hand,  pitilessly  real,  if 
shadow-hidden,  at  times  seemed  ready  to  be 
[  193  ] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

reaching,  reaching — one  does  not  harp  upon 
the  possible  loss  of  a  priceless  treasure. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  these  things  rising  in  a  mo- 
ment dimly  cloudlike  in  her  mind,  together 
with  a  chance  word  let  fall  by  Caroline  at  the 
breakfast  table,  crept  into  the  narrow  back- 
yard with  unaccountable  misgiving.  Unswept, 
and  daubed  with  dried  tracks  of  mud,  it  had 
an  alien  look,  half  foreboding. 

But  old  Snooty  was  there,  faithful,  shaggy 
old  Snooty,  who  served  impartially  two  mis- 
tresses, and  she  patted  his  head  with  a  momen- 
tary feeling  of  comfort,  as  she  swung  herself 
lightly  over  the  sagging  step  at  the  door. 

The  alien  look  extended,  too,  to  the  kitchen. 
The  fire  was  out,  and  a  general  aspect  of  deso- 
lation assailed  her.  The  muddy  tracks  con- 
tinued across  the  rough,  wide-cracked  floor 
where  Robert,  touzle-headed,  and  with  small, 
syrup-smeared  mouth  set  tight,  forlornly 
counted  his  marbles.  On  the  scarred,  oilcloth- 
covered  table  were  the  remnants  of  a  hasty  din- 
ner— a  plate  of  cold  boiled  potatoes  and  the 
ever  present  syrup  pitcher  flanked  by  a  dish 
[  194] 


A   SHADOW    OF    TRAGEDY 

of  stewed  onions  turning  pallid  in  the  thickness 
of  the  gravy. 

The  two  children  stared  at  each  other  speech- 
lessly a  second,  eyes  large  with  questioning. 
It  was  Elizabeth  Anne  who  first  ventured, 
tiptoeing  across  the  sitting-room  floor,  and 
thence  into  the  bedroom  beyond,  pushing  open 
the  door  as  the  weak,  hanging  latch  yielded 
readily  to  her  fingers. 

A  flickering  candle  sputtered  on  the  box 
dresser,  and  by  its  light  Caroline  measured  out 
some  drops  from  a  bottle.  She  looked  up  si- 
lently at  the  timid  footstep,  offering  no  re- 
proaches; but  her  face  was  enough.  "Go  get 
Marthy,  dear,"  was  all  she  said,  interrupting, 
so,  with  her  quiet  speech  the  sound  of  labored 
baby  breathing  from  the  corner  trundle  bed. 

Elizabeth  Anne  was  dimly  conscious  of 
backing  out  of  the  room;  she  knew  that  she 
fumbled  about  stupidly  for  her  hat,  attempt- 
ing to  tie  the  strings,  when  at  last  she  seized 
upon  them,  with  fingers  strangely  useless. 
Someway,  still  strangely,  she  managed  to  get 
out  into  the  yard,  and  through  the  gate,  and 

[195] 


THE   GENIUS   OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

over  beyond  to  the  nearest  of  the  little  red 
houses. 

Strangely,  too,  she  succeeded  in  humming 
a  little  air,  in  a  key  so  foreign  as  to  have  a 
startling  sound  in  her  own  ears,  but  with  a 
make-believe  coolness  very  helpful  to  her  cour- 
age. Yet  when  she  would  have  offered  her 
greetings  at  the  door,  her  voice  behaved  in  an 
unseemly  fashion  in  her  throat,  and  she  only 
beckoned  to  Marthy,  whose  broad,  comfortable 
figure  reposed  on  the  sofa.  "Wake  up,  gal,  an' 
git  a  hustle  on  ye,"  shrilled  grandma  from  her 
rocker,  sitting  up  and  stretching  out  her  thin 
neck,  and  at  once  arriving  at  the  purport  of  the 
visit.  "They've  got  'n  almighty  sick  young-un 
over  t'  their  place,  er  I  hain't  no  jedge  o'  sick- 
ness. Skimpy  feedin',  I  expec',  along  with  him 
out  o'  work  in  the  slack  buildin'  times.  He'd 
gone  fer  the  Doc  when  I  wuz  thar.  Mebbe 
they'll  not  be  gittin'  him  neither,  head  over 
heels  in  debt  to  'm  ez  they  be ;  t'  say  nuthin'  o' 
their  Aunt  Sary  that's  ferever  atailin'  'em  up 
gone  off  a-nu'ssin',  and  that  squash-nose  grocer 
pup  refusin'  t'  trust  'm  t'day.  Ef  it  didn't 

[196] 


A    SHADOW    OF    TRAGEDY 

take  more'n  a  barr'l  o'  horse  strength  t'  git  ye 
started  I'd  a-shipped  ye  out  afore." 

"Um-m,  ah,  yah,"  yawned  Marthy,  lifting 
up  her  arms  like  rough  red  monoliths  in  her 
torn  wrapper  sleeves.  But  she  gathered  her- 
self together  after  a  time.  "Don't  set  up  fer 
me,  Gran',"  she  enjoined  good-naturedly  in 
passing. 

Elizabeth  Anne  plunged  along  at  her  side 
in  the  earthy  dusk  while  she  pantingly  related 
a  lurid  dream  which  she  poutingly  averred  had 
wrecked  her  afternoon  nap.  "Nawful  bad 
sign,  too,"  she  was  gasping  as  they  went  up  the 
steps.  "Nawful  bad  luck!" 

The  gathering  night  came  on  apace.  In  a 
corner  of  the  kitchen,  a  single  cricket  chirped 
lonesomely,  the  sound  presently  drowned  by 
Marthy's  clatter  of  the  dishes.  Once,  a  long- 
drawn,  strangling  cough  from  the  bedroom. 

David  and  Caroline,  with  bowed  heads,  kept 
watch  beside  the  bed.  Robert,  neglected,  slept 
heavily  on  the  floor;  Elizabeth  Anne  took  him 
under  the  arms,  and  half  dragged,  half  carried 
him  to  his  bed.  He  made  no  remonstrance, 
sturdy  eight  year  old  though  he  was.  The 

[197] 


THE   GENIUS    OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

old  doctor,  busy  on  his  rounds,  had  not  yet 
appeared. 

"Want  an  o'nge,  want  an  o'nge,"  begged  a 
curiously  muted  little  voice  in  the  intervals 
of  coughing.  And  always  the  sound  trailed 
off  into  wistful  silence. 

"Yes,  yes,  dear,"  promised  Caroline  feebly, 
over  and  over,  but  when  she  looked  at  David 
with  needless  questioning,  he  turned  away  his 
face. 

A  few  neighbors  came  in.  The  rank  blue 
smoke  from  Uncle  Pete's  pipe  filled  the 
kitchen.  Maggie  O'Hara  stood  before  the  row 
of  paper  dolls  on  the  window-sill,  and  burst 
into  tears.  Brave  little  array  of  inanimate 
children  whose  elaborate  tissue  finery  attested 
to  the  painstaking  care  of  a  babe-mother  who 
had  crowded  so  much  into  her  little  day! 

The  air  of  the  room  grew  warm  and  heavy 
and  unpleasant.  Elizabeth  Anne  stole  out, 
by  and  by,  onto  the  porch  in  the  coolness  of 
the  night.  "Want  an  o'nge,  want  an  o'nge," 
the  wistful,  muted  voice  seemed  to  follow  her. 
And  once,  once,  she  had  seen  a  great  dish  of 

[198] 


A   SHADOW    OF    TRAGEDY 

the  golden  globed  fruit  which  all  in  satiety 
had  passed  by! 

She  laid  her  hands  over  her  ears  suddenly, 
with  the  memory,  feeling  the  need  of  utter 
silence  in  which  to  patch  together  in  some  blind 
fashion  this  jumbled  puzzle  of  life  which 
brought  to  one  coveted  things  out  of  season, 
and  bestowed  in  luxuriance  where  there  was  no 
need. 

The  jostling  of  a  shambling  figure  for  a 
moment  stirred  her  out  of  herself.  It  was  her 
father.  For  all  the  streaming  light  from  the 
flimsily  draped  windows  he  seemed  blindly 
feeling  his  way,  rather  than  walking  as  one 
who  sees. 

"I  have  been  a  failure — a  failure,"  she 
heard  him  say,  and  the  quivering  bitterness  of 
his  voice  found  its  way  with  an  answering 
quiver  to  her  hurt,  elder-sister  heart,  awake  by 
a  single  pang  to  its  own  burden  of  responsi- 
bility, torn  so  early  with  its  own  ineff ectuality, 
knowing  paradoxically  so  much  of  pain,  be- 
cause it  could  know  so  little.  "Not  you,  father, 
but  I— I!" 

Another  hour  of  the  night  dragged  by.    The 

[199] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

doctor  came,  but  it  was  too  late.  One  glance 
at  his  face,  even  in  her  inexperience,  told  her 
that.  Her  mother's  face,  marmoreal  in  its 
rigidity,  confirmed  it.  There  was  nothing  to 
do  but  wait,  wait — a  black  infinitude  of  wait- 
ing—  in  the  velvety  dark  that,  like  an  all-per- 
vading Fatherly  love,  had  thrown  its  quiet  pall 
over  the  unrest  and  travail  of  a  palpitating 
world. 

A  sobbing  sound,  the  beginning  of  a  wail 
gaspingly  repressed,  the  faithful  old  doctor's 
tired  footstep  in  departure,  and  it  was  all  over. 

All  over,  or  was  it  only  begun?  To  the  tense 
child-watcher  on  the  porch  it  seemed  in  that  in- 
stant that  above  all  sounds  rose  yearningly,  and 
in  some  mysterious  fashion  outside  world- ways, 
a  universal  cry  never  to  be  stilled  that  Tiny 
Ruth  might  have  been  spared.  Spared  to 
what? 

To  a  stark  struggle  that  was  making  even 
the  heart  of  a  strong  man  faint?  Her  knees 
trembled  beneath  her.  The  far  white  star  on 
the  horizon,  which  had  fixed  her  gaze,  swam 
mistily. 

The  foundations  of  her  childish  world  began 
[200] 


A    SHADOW    OF    TRAGEDY 

to  crumble.  It  could  not  be  said  in  all  truth 
that  in  that  hour  her  childhood  slipped  from 
her  as  a  thing  that  was  not,  but  something 
about  her  that  was  very  young  and  very  white 
and  all-believing  and  unafraid,  spread  its  little 
wings  and  flew  away  forever  into  the  border- 
less shadow  of  the  night. 


[201] 


A  COAL  OF  THE  INFERNO 


XIV 
"A  COAL  OF  THE  INFERNO" 

There  are  no  pauses  in  the  first  warm  puls- 
ings of  youth,  no  idle  dalliance  with  grief,  or 
fear,  or  retrospect.  A  new  page,  a  new  aspect 
of  things,  the  opening  of  a  new  door,  if  only 
the  merest  crevice,  and  lo!  the  fresh  day  is 
borne  in,  and  life  marches  on  in  triumphant 
procession. 

Miss  Barlow's  school  lent  itself  readily  to 
the  needs  of  the  procession.  As  a  prime  factor 
of  value,  it  was  advantageous  as  to  location, 
which  is  to  say  in  terms  familiar  to  juvenile 
Cull  Prairie,  it  was  "just  across  the  street  from 
'Popcorn  Ike's'." 

"Popcorn  Ike,"  according  to  "Grandma" 
Prouty,  kept  a  "confusionary"  shop,  but  there 
was  no  evidence  of  confusion  in  his  single  and 
unceasing  desire  for  pennies,  which  were  lost 
to  sight  immediately  in  his  little  yellow  claws, 
nor  yet  in  his  generously  fly-specked  windows 
with  their  methodical  lines  of  candy-canes  and 

[205] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

fat  and  eyeless  chocolate  "men."  (The  latter, 
by  the  way,  for  all  their  seeming  innocence, 
were  part  of  a  clever  gambling  scheme,  having, 
in  occasional  instances,  a  coppery  coin  stored 
away  in  their  anatomy — a  coin  acting  like 
magic  in  inducing  the  lucky  winning  wight  to 
invest  his  ill-gotten  gains  in  another  man,  and 
another  and  another.) 

"Indade,  an'  th'  brassy  taste  is  but  a  relish, 
wance  ye  get  used  t'  it,"  Belle  O'Hara  pro- 
claimed from  the  surge  of  the  sidewalk  to  the 
group  of  Fourth  Readers  assembled  on  a  par- 
ticular morning  under  the  shop's  striped 
awning. 

The  recommendation,  so  far  from  being 
necessary,  added  only  such  an  impetus  on  the 
little  "men"  that  it  presently  became  necessary 
to  call  forth  a  fresh  relay. 

And  still  the  reckless  speculation  went  on. 
It  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  the  Fourth  Read- 
ers, aside  from  a  natural  desire  to  enliven  a 
wretchedly  drab  intermediary  state,  were  under 
some  particular  stress  or  strain. 

The  Carney  twins'  noses  were  pinker  than 
usual  by  a  full  two  shades,  approaching,  in- 

[206] 


"A    COAL    OF    THE    INFERNO" 

deed,  a  hue  rarely  riotous ;  the  yellow  braids  of 
the  Littlest  Girl  seemed  poised  in  the  act  of 
flight;  Elizabeth  Anne  Langdon,  penniless, 
and  therefore  as  yet  morally  intact,  clutched 
her  well-swathed  arithmetic  desperately,  a 
skinny  forefinger  pressed  for  convenience  be- 
tween the  mazes  of  the  greatest  common  divi- 
sor; Angelina  Bird,  the  child  of  an  unfortunate 
cousin  of  the  Birds  who  had  lately  been  foisted 
upon  them,  dug  the  toe  of  her  shabby  slipper 
in  the  ground  and  writhed  in  general  sympathy. 

But  it  was  "Cousin  Minnie"  herself,  her 
pouting  lips  still  smeared  with  the  brownish 
remains  of  no  less  than  her  tenth  "man,"  in 
whom  the  emotion  was  to  focus. 

The  years  did  little  for  Minnie  Bird  save  to 
lengthen  somewhat  her  rather  too  well  rounded 
limbs,  necessitating  in  her  garments  a  succes- 
sion of  extra  blue  and  white  flounces.  Her 
fat  white  neck  with  its  coral  beads,  the  puzzled 
expression  of  her  wide  hazel  eyes,  her  poor 
little  giddy,  babyish  brain  remained  unchanged. 

There  are  divers  ways  of  bringing  up  chil- 
dren. Minnie  Bird's  mother,  as  the  town  gos- 
sips not  infrequently  deplored,  was  hardly  an 

[207] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

adept  in  the  ways  of  mothercraft.  To  her,  her 
daughter  was  a  creature  to  be  decked  in  femi- 
nine frivols,  toyed  with  when  the  fancy  seized 
her,  and  relegated  to  a  corner  in  her  more  seri- 
ous moments. 

At  rare  intervals,  when  the  tale  of  a  failure 
or  a  misdemeanor  drifted  to  her  ears,  she  spent 
a  wakeful  night,  of  which  she  long  complained, 
devising  some  new  and  telling  form  of 
punishment. 

The  fear  of  one  of  these  periodic  disturb- 
ances was  in  Minnie's  gasping  voice  as  she 
lolled  about  in  the  shop's  doorway  with  the 
piped  reiteration,  "Oh,  I  know  I'll  fail;  I  just 
know  I  will,  and  what  will  mama  do?" 

Sympathizers  crowded  round  and  related 
whisperingly  how  "folks  has  fell  dead  at  a  writ- 
ten examination"  (the  especial  form  of  terror 
then  creeping  up  on  the  Fourth  Reader  terri- 
tory) ;  the  girls  to  be  examined  stared  and  ex- 
claimed and  fidgeted  and  began  to  chant  rules 
in  a  monotonous  key ;  the  boys  slunk  away  with 
characteristic  masculine  dread  of  a  scene,  when 
suddenly  in  a  lull,  the  thin  gasping  voice  from 
the  doorway  rose  to  a  wail,  and  Minnie,  grown 

[208] 


"A   COAL    OF    THE    INFERNO" 

hysterical,  beat  her  hands  on  her  breast,  and 
laughed  unrestrainedly  with  the  tears  stream- 
ing down  her  cheeks,  until  Miss  Barlow,  cross- 
ing the  street,  heard  the  commotion,  and  came 
and  led  her  away  to  the  office. 

The  reciting  group  began  consciously  to  dis- 
band at  that,  following,  one  by  one,  embar- 
rassedly,  into  the  shadows  of  the  corridor,  where 
a  startled  silence  fell,  save  for  Belle  O'Hara's 
disgusted  aside,  "Och,  ye  pinheads,  ye  poor 
mis'rable  pinheads!  .  .  .  Shure  an'  there 
she  comes  now,  th'  quanely  wan  wid  th'  cudgel 
av  war-r  in  her  hand!" 

The  last  remark  was  directed  at  the  Fourth 
Reader  teacher,  Clarice  Drury,  by  name,  a 
newcomer  to  the  town  and  to  the  school,  and 
already  at  the  bottom  of  the  Fourth  Reader 
upheaval,  though  she  had  held  the  reins  of 
government  scarcely  a  month.  Circumstances 
had  forced  Miss  Drury  into  the  teaching  pro- 
fession, and  she  was  distinctly  a  rara  avis  in 
its  sober-walking  ranks. 

She  advanced  to  ring  the  bell  with  a  manner 
almost  threatening,  swinging  her  ribboned 
pointer,  from  which  she  was  never  long  sepa- 

[209] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

rated,  from  side  to  side,  though  her  unusual 
height  and  the  naturally  stealthy  movements 
of  her  long  limbs  would  have  seemed  to  free 
her  from  the  necessity  of  a  stick. 

She  was  wearing  just  then  a  silken  gown  of 
a  vivid  green,  being  given,  albeit,  to  as  many 
guises  as  a  female  Caliph  Haroun  al-Raschid. 

Her  lips  and  cheeks  flamed  artificially 
through  an  unevenly  distributed  powder  coat- 
ing, her  brows  were  straight,  luxuriant  and 
deeply  black,  her  wheat-colored  hair  so  befriz- 
zled  and  bepompadoured  that  the  top  of  her 
head  had  almost  lost  its  human  semblance. 

"My  Uncle  Llewellyn  says  she's  striking," 
murmured  simple  Angelina,  all  eyes  and 
admiration. 

"Faith  an'  that's  where  he  hit  th'  nail  on  the 
head,"  agreed  Belle,  falling  into  line  at  the 
sound  of  the  gong,  and  pretending  to  search 
her  forearm  for  the  mark  of  a  bruise  in 
proof  of  her  assertion.  (Belle's  scholarship 
was  not  reckoned  among  the  desirable  things  in 
Miss  Barlow's  school  but  in  her  snail-like 
progress  through  the  grades  she  picked  up 
more  than  the  rudiments  of  the  three  R's.) 

[210] 


"A    COAL    OF    THE    INFERNO" 

Miss  Drury  eyed  her  vindictively  in  passing, 
as  if  longing  for  further  encounters,  then,  her 
class  having  assembled,  she  closed  the  door  em- 
phatically, and  freed  her  mind  of  certain  things 
concerning  "failures"  and  their  deserts. 

She  moved  about  the  room  meanwhile  with 
the  steady,  even  progress  of  a  top-heavy 
mechanical  toy. 

It  was  as  if  she  spoke  of  some  crackling 
inferno,  and  the  doomed  and  tortured  denizens 
thereof.  The  Fourth  Reader  class  felt  it  to 
the  tips  of  their  small  ink-smudged  fingers  as 
they  took  up  their  pens  and  fared  forth  unpro- 
tected into  the  jungle  of  the  G.  C.  D.  and  the 
L.  C.  M.  They  hoped  valiantly  for  the  best, 
but  the  very  atmosphere  betrayed  that  they 
believed  the  hope  a  forlorn  one. 

Scratch,  scratch,  scratch,  went  the  steady, 
faithful  pens ;  and  tick,  tick,  tick,  remindingly 
observed  the  huge  clock  on  the  wall. , 

Elizabeth  Anne,  having  set  forth  Rule  One 
in  three  lines  of  painfully  neat  penmanship, 
sneezed  violently  in  the  draught  from  the  half- 
opened  window  behind  her  and  became  aware 
at  the  same  time  that  her  page  was  hopelessly 

[211] 


THE   GENIUS    OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

bedewed,  and  that  a  sharp  voice  was  speaking 
very  close  to  her  ear,  while  a  pair  of  dark  eyes 
from  which  little  sparks  seemed  to  shoot  looked 
down  angrily  into  her  own. 

So  descended  upon  her  head  the  first  little 
unexpected  coal  of  the  inferno!  Angelina 
Bird,  across  the  aisle,  witnessing  the  encounter, 
buried  her  face  in  her  ragged  scrap  of  hand- 
kerchief, and  began  to  sob  heartrendingly. 


[212] 


MISS  DRURY'S  ROMANCE 


XV 

MISS  DRURY'S  ROMANCE 

Angelina  Bird  would  never  have  been  re- 
marked for  her  mental  or  physical  endow- 
ments, but  her  sympathies  were  vast  and  pecu- 
liar, having  been  gained  in  the  hard  school  of 
poverty  and  orphanhood  in  which  she  had 
been  bandied  about  from  one  relative  to  an- 
other, subsisting  chiefly  on  a  bone,  a  crust  and 
a  cuff. 

Never  having  been  permitted  to  live  any  life 
of  her  own,  she  habitually  sank  her  pitiful  shred 
of  personality  in  that  of  some  other,  and  clung 
with  the  tenacity  of  a  half-starved  alley  kitten. 

The  disconsolate  sound  of  her  sniffling  sent 
a  vague  unrest  into  other  parts  of  the  room. 

The  Red  Headed  Boy,  a  clumsy  black  blot 
marring  his  morning's  effort,  sat  like  a  Marius 
mourning  among  the  ruins  of  his  Carthage ;  the 
Littlest  Girl  was  seized  with  a  nosebleed;  the 
Carney  twins,  taking  advantage  of  the  general 
distraction,  were  caught  "cheating";  a  knock- 

[216] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

kneed  little  wight  who  was  captured  in  an  un- 
ceremonious flight  to  the  outer  door,  explained 
haltingly  after  many  demands  that  he  "thought 
somebody  was  having  a  fit." 

Take  it  all  in  all,  it  was  an  exciting  morning 
to  say  the  least  of  it.  The  Fourth  Readers 
put  their  heads  together  concerning  it,  at  noon. 
There  was  smouldering  rebellion  in  several 
quarters,  but  it  did  not  show  itself  openly. 

The  rural  respect  for  "teachers,  pastors,  gov- 
ernors and  masters"  is  a  thing  of  much  depth 
and  stability,  a  habit  of  generations  that  is  not 
put  aside  in  a  moment.  And  so  it  happened 
that  Miss  Drury  did  not  seriously  lose  caste  in 
their  eyes  as  yet. 

The  taller  girls  brandished  sticks  at  recess, 
and  imitated  as  nearly  as  possible  her  nervous 
tossing  of  a  stray  lock  on  her  forehead;  the 
shorter  ones,  bethinking  themselves  of  her  high 
color,  pinched  their  cheeks  in  envious  desire. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  sitting  on  a  grassy  knoll 
with  Angelina's  scarecrow  arm  about  her,  dried 
her  eyes  in  thoughtful  little  dabs  and  took 
serious  counsel  with  herself. 

From  the  first  day  she  had  looked  upon  the 
[216] 


MISS    DRURY'S    ROMANCE 

new  teacher  as  a  goddess  on  a  pedestal.  It  had 
been  one  of  Miss  Drury's  amiable  days,  and  she 
had  praised  the  copybook  of  her  admiring 
pupil,  placing  it  on  the  desk  where  all  might 
see,  and  Angelina — Angelina  who  never  by 
any  chance  had  her  own  work  praised — had 
smiled  broadly,  and  clapped  her  hands  in  silent 
pantomime. 

Now  the  goddess  had  seen  fit  to  descend 
from  her  pedestal  and  shake  a  certain  slim  and 
well-meaning  shoulder.  Elizabeth  Anne,  de- 
spite her  hurt  and  ruffled  feelings,  was  not  yet 
sure  of  the  state  of  her  own  mind.  As  for 
Angelina,  in  her  heart  there  was  no  guile. 

"She's  awful  beautiful,  though,  ain't  she?" 
she  was  saying  extenuatingly  again  and  again. 
"I  never  seen  anything  like  her  before,  'cept 

once  when  I  lived  in  L with  Aunt  Celia. 

There  was  one  in  a  big  store  there,  in  a  window, 
with  jus'  such  hair,  an'  such  a  face  (only  more 
smilin')  an'  jus'  such  clo'es.  An'  she  never 
walked  out  of  it,  'cause  I  seen  her  ev'ry  day  in 
the  same  place.  .  .  .  You  ain't  mad,  are 
you?" 

[217] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

"Mm-m-m — no,"  mumbled  Elizabeth  Anne 
from  behind  set  teeth. 

"An'  you  don't  feel  any  worse  'cause  I  told 

you?" 

"No,"  said  Elizabeth  Anne,  distinctly  this 
time.  One  of  her  rare  impulses  to  tenderness 
laid  hold  of  her,  and  she  leaned  over  and 
touched  her  lips  lingeringly  to  Angelina's  blue 
and  bony  and  caressing  little  fingers. 

"There  ain't  nobody  around  got  eyes  like 
hers  ner  hair,  ner  teeth,  ner  nuthin'  like  her," 
persisted  the  recipient  of  this  attention,  who 
liked  to  clinch  a  matter. 

Elizabeth  Anne  cocked  her  head  debatingly 
on  one  side  like  a  considering  sparrow.  It  was 
characteristic  of  her,  too,  to  cling  most  tena- 
ciously to  those  idols  about  which  she  found  it 
necessary  to  hang  the  most  disguising  dream 
fabrics. 

Faintly  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and  agreed 
with  Miss  Drury's  champion.  More,  she  even 
began  to  feel  that  the  lady  must  have  justice 
done  her  in  the  list  of  her  peculiar  assets. 
Would  it  do  to  tell  Angelina?  There  was  one 
she  had  not  named,  one  of  overweening  impor- 

[218] 


MISS    DRURY'S    ROMANCE 

tance — simple  Angelina  who  could  not  be 
expected  to  know. 

Elizabeth  Anne  knew,  and  the  very  knowing 
restored  in  a  measure  her  wounded  self-esteem. 
The  truth  was,  Miss  Drury  had  a  beau,  enough 
in  itself  to  distinguish  her  in  the  teaching  ranks. 
Nor  was  she  in  any  way  insensible  to  the  honor 
fate  had  so  conferred  upon  her. 

He  was  smooth  and  broad-mouthed  and 
white-vested  as  the  most  promising  frog  that 
ever  lifted  its  head  in  McCarty's  marsh,  and 
it  was  only  in  keeping  with  the  eternal  fitness 
of  things  that  he  should  dispense  cooling  and 
bubbling  beverages  at  the  corner  drug-store — 
a  pursuit  he  followed  in  gentlemanly  fashion, 
with  alternate  Friday  afternoons  to  himself, 
when  he  invariably  appeared  at  the  school  with 
a  proprietary  air  that  reminded  one  irresistibly 
of  the  Marquis  of  Carabas. 

Outside,  there  frequently  awaited  two  paw- 
ing saddle-horses  which  the  pair  rode  with  con- 
siderable grace,  or  again,  there  would  be  visible 
in  flashing  glimpses  through  the  street  door,  an 
equipage  that  would  have  turned  the  legendary 
Marquis  green  with  envy. 

[219] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

Neighborhood  parties  and  socials  came 
speedily  to  be  considered  incomplete  without 
the  dashing  presence  of  the  two,  and,  once,  it 
was  said,  when  they  had  been  dancing  the 
"galop"  together  in  "Union  Hall,"  the  other 
dancers  had  stepped  aside  and  given  them  the 
floor,  but  whether  from  admiration  or  from 
actual  necessity,  it  would  be  a  little  hard  to  say. 

Elizabeth  Anne  regretted  sincerely  that  it 
had  not  fallen  to  her  portion  to  witness  this 
terpsichorean  triumph,  and  treasured  in  lieu  of 
the  mental  picture  that  might  have  been  hers, 
a  magazine  cut  setting  forth  various  attitudes 
in  the  waltz,  explaining  at  Caroline's  sweetly 
puzzled  question  that  "Teacher  had  a  pair  of 
magic  dancing  slippers,  the  most  wonderful  in 
aU  the  world." 

This  was  all  that  Caroline — a  little  quieter 
these  days,  a  little  less  smiling,  but  none  the 
less  interested — ever  knew  of  Miss  Drury  or 
her  remarkable  possessions,  though  the  end  of 
the  latter  was  not  yet. 

As  a  further  peculiar  asset,  Miss  Drury  had 
a  spy.  The  spy  was  a  large,  swarthy,  foreign- 
looking  girl  named  Rachel,  who  sat  in  the  back 
[220] 


MISS    DRURY'S    ROMANCE 

row  and  reported  secretly  the  doings  and  say- 
ings of  her  classmates  in  school  and  out. 

Rachel  was  halting  of  speech,  low-browed, 
slow  of  motion  and  scarcely  more  than  half- 
witted, but  so  proficient  did  she  become  in  her 
specialty,  that  she  even  acquired  the  power  to 
draw  upon  her  imagination  for  offenses.  Pun- 
ishments began  to  fall  in  new  and  unexpected 
places,  and  real  guilt  was  apt  to  be  overlooked. 

The  Fourth  Readers  abandoned  themselves 
to  a  reign  of  recklessness.  Elizabeth  Anne  and 
the  faithful  Angelina  entered  into  a  compact. 

If  one  fell  under  the  ban  of  Rachel's  dis- 
favor, the  other  contrived  to  do  likewise,  and 
'so  halved  the  disgrace.  It  worked  admirably, 
until  Rachel,  sneaking  around  a  corner  where 
the  two  sat  in  sober  colloquy,  slowly  but  surely 
descended  upon  it,  and  thrust  out  an  accusing 
forefinger. 

"Ain't  she  cute?"  observed  Angelina  in  un- 
feigned admiration. 

Elizabeth  Anne  sprang  to  her  feet  red  to  the 
ears. 

"Cute!"  she  fairly  blazed  in  the  stress  of 
her  indignation,  "Cute!  she's  the  ugliest,  stu- 

[221] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

pidest,  hatefulest,  meanest" — she  stopped, 
short  of  breath  and  superlatives,  and  finding 
herself  in  the  unyielding  clutches  of  the  spy, 
surrendered  the  remainder  of  her  noon  inter- 
mission without  further  adieu. 

Indoors  the  air  was  warm  and  dull  with  the 
languor  of  early  summer;  there  were  muddy 
tracks  across  the  soft  wood  floor  and  ugly  ink 
smootches  on  the  desk  upon  which  Miss  Drury 
leaned  her  white  braceleted  forearm. 

But  it  was  not  altogether  unpleasant.  The 
closeness  was  conducive  to  sleep,  and  sleep  to 
dreams,  and  in  the  dreams  teacher  was  a  Queen 
with  a  jeweled  robe  and  glittering  ear-rings, 
and  one's  own  self  her  lady  in  waiting. 

Here  the  dreamer  stirred  with  importance, 
and  awakening  fully,  stared  uncomprehend- 
ingly  into  the  shallow  eyes  above  the  ink-spat- 
tered desk — eyes  that  stared  back  with  equal 
blankness,  since  it  was  not  in  the  nature  of 
things  that  a  single  gleam  of  understanding 
should  pass  between  the  two. 

But  some  things  hitherto  unimagined  were 
forcing  their  way  into  the  unwilling  younger 
mind,  even  as  they  had  already  found  lodge- 

[222  ] 


MISS    DRURY'S    ROMANCE 

ment  among  the  more  astute  of  the  Fourth 
Readers.  Among  them  was  the  circumstance 
that  a  punishment,  or  an  examination,  either, 
for  that  matter,  might  be  accompanied  with 
much  gusto,  and  still  amount  to  very  little  in 
a  practical  way. 

At  the  middle  of  the  term,  Miss  Barlow, 
who,  up  to  this  time  had  been  more  than  ordi- 
narily busy,  made  some  deductions  of  her  own 
along  this  line,  and  followed  them  with  an  in- 
terview more  or  less  stormy — an  interview  that 
had  only  the  effect  of  enhancing  for  a  time 
Miss  Drury's  high-handedness. 

A  natural  angry  color  came  to  heighten  the 
hue  that  was  not  of  blood  in  her  cheeks;  her 
voice  grew  more  cutting;  her  prowlings  about 
the  room  more  continuous  and  aimless. 

Elizabeth  Anne  and  Angelina  in  conclave 
resorted  to  the  deaf  and  dumb  alphabet  which 
was  lost  upon  the  sneaking  Rachel,  but  there 
was  nothing  derogatory  to  their  goddess  in  the 
signs. 

Just  now  it  would  have  been  easier  than  ever 
to  imagine  her  emerging  from  some  oriental- 
draped  queenly  boudoir,  only  that  her  family 

[223] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

consisting  of  a  flippant,  middle-aged  mother,  a 
stumbling,  white-haired  father  and  a  pimply, 
dissipated  youth,  had  lately  come  to  Cull 
Prairie  and  taken  up  their  abode  in  a  dingy, 
sprawling,  long-deserted  house  on  the  South 
Side. 

There  was  a  wide  veranda  at  each  side  of  the 
house  and  a  ghostly  corridor  in  front,  the  work 
of  its  long  dead  first  occupant  who  had  owned 
a  family  with  aspirations.  A  once  imposing, 
though  now  tipsy  looking  weather-vane  deco- 
rated the  top,  and  down  to  the  street  sloped 
a  weedy  front  yard  shut  in  by  an  ornamental 
lawn  fence. 

The  Fourth  Readers  hung  over  this  fence 
in  the  twilight  when  they  dared,  and  peeped 
shyly  at  the  hanging  gray-green  shutters  and 
the  uncurtained  windows. 

The  majority  of  Cull  Prairie  teachers  re- 
sided in  places  remote  from  the  village,  and  a 
teachers'  home  was  popularly  thought  to  be 
necessarily  a  place  of  distinction.  Elizabeth 
Anne,  going  a  half  mile  out  of  her  way  on 
many  an  errand  for  the  privilege  of  passing  it? 


MISS    DRURY'S    ROMANCE 

shut  her  eyes  resolutely  to  the  defects  of  the 
spot. 

It  is  not  always  easy  to  worship  at  a  shrine 
with  dusty,  dilapidated  steps  and  dirt-flecked 
windows.  Sometimes,  in  fancy,  she  ascended 
the  steps,  and  found  teacher  in  a  magnificently 
furnished  throne-room,  a  golden  crown  on  her 
head,  and  a  host  of  eager  servants  rushing  to 
do  her  bidding. 

It  was  a  very  agreeable  experience  and 
helped  her  wonderfully  in  the  trying  days  pre- 
,  ceding  Miss  Barlow's  second  interview  with 
Miss  Drury,  after  which  there  was  an  hiatus 
for  a  time  in  the  Fourth  Reader  work,  followed 
by  the  advent  of  a  new  lady  in  power,  a  tiny, 
middle-aged,  gray-headed  lady,  so  pale  and  so 
thin  and  so  soft-voiced  that  one  had  to  look 
twice  to  make  sure  she  was  not  sketched  upon 
the  wall. 

It  gave  the  class  a  strange  f eeling  of  awe,  as 
if  death  or  some  equal  calamity  had  crept  un- 
•seen  into  their  midst,  and  they  sat  silent,  or 
walked  painstakingly  on  tiptoe,  and  clattered 
never  an  ink-well  nor  a  water-bottle. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  the  stillest  of  them  all, 

[226] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

awaited  the  coming  of  the  first  intermission  to 
relieve  her  pent-up  emotions,  and  then  stole 
mouselike  into  the  cloakroom  and  laid  her  head 
against  the  hard  but  ample  bosom  of  the  waste 
paper  box. 

Angelina  would  not  be  far  off — Angelina 
who  invariably  sympathized  whether  she  un- 
derstood or  not.  If  there  had  been  any  doubt 
of  it  in  her  mind,  it  would  have  been  dispelled 
in  the  next  moment  by  the  tight  clutching 
arms  about  her  knees  and  the  round,  beseech- 
ing eyes  looking  into  hers. 

"I  know,"  said  Angelina  impetuously,  and 
not  without  pride  in  the  fact,  "you're  lonesome, 
an'  you  want  t'  see  her"  She  laid  peculiar 
stress  on  the  pronoun,  as  if  it  had  had  reference 
to  the  dead  and  sainted.  "I  knew  you  would, 
an'  I've  got  a  way — oh,  jus'  th'  easiest  way! 
You  see  she  borrowed  a  book  of  Aunt  Bird's, 
an'  forgot  t'  return  it" — the  narrator's  breath 
was  coming  pantingly — "an'  I — I — of  course 
you'll  go  along?" 

Elizabeth  Anne  drew  back.  The  unex- 
pected opening  of  the  gates  of  any  paradise, 
however  much  desired,  is  apt  to  prove  embar- 

[226] 


MISS    DRURY'S    ROMANCE 

passing.  Besides,  it  is  quite  possible  that  in 
her  secret  heart  she  feared  the  shattering  of 
her  dream.  But  to  ascend  those  steps  in  reality 
— to  enter  that  room !  She  twined  an  arm  ex- 
citedly about  Angelina's  slim  waist  the  mo- 
ment they  had  secured  permission,  and  the  two 
set  out  with  dancing  feet  and  courage  that 
diminished  strangely  at  every  step  of  the  way. 

Arrived  at  their  destination,  they  rapped 
faintly  at  the  heavy,  half -open  hall  door  again 
and  again,  but  though  there  was  a  sound  of 
voices  from  within,  there  was  no  response. 
The  voices  were  rising  angrily. 

"Lost  it!  Lost  your  job?"  barked  the  first 
incredulously.  "I  s'pose  that  hatin'  work  th' 
way  you  do,  you  thought  you'd  quit,  seein*  I 
was  fool  enough  t'  write  you  I'd  married  a  little 
money.  It  was  a  mistake  I  tell  you — my  mar- 
ryin'.  The  ol'  simpleton's  cracked.  I  took 
him  fer  a  man  o'  means,  like  he  set  up  t'  be, 
an'  all  he's  got's  an  addled  patel  .  .  .  An* 
you  with  that  diamon'  locket  an'  clo'es  way  out 
o'  yer  station!  .  .  .  Well,  you're  done, 
that's  all!  There's  no  chance  fer  you  here  t' 

[227] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

be  idlin'  around  in  style.  You  can  marry  that 
sody- water  man  o'  yours,  or" — 

"That'll  do,  ma,"  heatedly  broke  in  the  sec- 
ond voice,  undeniably,  by  its  force  and  timbre, 
Miss  Drury's,  "if  you  spent  more  time  mindin' 
your  own  business" — 

But  her  eye  had  caught  the  light  flutter  of 
Angelina's  frayed  petticoats,  and  she  swal- 
lowed the  closing  words  of  her  sentence,  and 
flung  the  door  open  hastily  on  a  room  dirtier 
and  more  disordered  even  than  the  dust-laden 
stairs  and  dingy  windows  would  have  led  one 
to  suspect. 

The  two  women  who  were  its  occupants 
lounged  in  their  rockers  in  untidy  wrappers 
and  with  unkempt  hair.  The  cheeks  of  the 
younger,  bereft  of  their  brilliance,  showed  high 
and  sallow;  the  expression  of  her  mouth  was 
hard,  and  there  were  offensively  sophisticated 
lines  under  her  eyes. 

"Clark,"  she  called  up  the  stairway  upon 
Angelina's  stammered  request,  "bring  down 
that  book  of  Mrs.  Bird's." 

The  old  man — it  was  evidently  her  newly- 
made  father  she  had  been  addressing — shuffled 

[228] 


MISS    DRURY'S    ROMANCE 

about  obediently.  From  his  poor,  gray,  timid, 
wrinkled  face,  one  might  have  judged  that 
he  was  in  fear  of  the  two  women.  On  the  last 
step  he  stumbled,  and  dropped  the  book  with 
a  force  that  loosened  it  in  its  bindings. 

"You  old  fool!"  hissed  his  step-daughter  in 
his  ear,  as  she  stooped  to  recover  it,  "you 
clumsy  old  fool!" 

The  two  girls  awkwardly  and  silently  made 
their  way  back  to  the  street.  In  Elizabeth 
Anne's  heart  was  chaos.  The  feet  of  her  idol 
had  been  revealed,  and  they  were  ugly  to  look 
upon,  so  ugly  that  there  was  nothing  left  to 
do  but  turn  away  and  marvel. 

Worse,  the  ugliness  refused  to  be  hidden, 
but  spread  like  circles  in  a  still  pool  into  which 
a  pebble  is  flung. 

Neighborhood  gossip  seized  upon  it  with 
avidity,  and  announced  sensationally  as  a 
climax  that  "Miss  Drury's  beau  had  forged  a 
check  for  nobody  knows  how  much,"  and  that 
"the  hull  fam'ly  had  gone  the  land  knows 
where." 

"I  tell  you  she  was  awful  handsome  though," 
maintained  Angelina  in  the  face  of  everything. 

[229] 


THE    GENIUS    OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

But  Elizabeth  Anne  hung  her  head  and  an- 
swered nothing.  Through  it  all  she  had  been 
reminded  of  a  shattered  idol  as  by  an  insistent 
voice.  "You  old  fool,"  it  kept  on  saying,  and 
the  poor,  simple  face  in  her  memory  seemed 
to  shrink  and  quiver  again  with  fright,  "you 
clumsy,  old  fool!" 


[230] 


JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT 


XVI 

JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT 

It  is  an  uplifting  experience  to  stand  on  the 
little  shining  hill  of  the  Fifth  Reader  Class, 
as  one  may  stand  on  an  elevation  of  this  sort 
only  once  in  the  course  of  a  lifetime,  and  look 
down. 

The  flat  trodden  plains  below  are  so  very  far 
away,  the  highest  rose-touched  pinnacle  above 
so  nearly  within  reach  of  an  outstretched  hand, 
so  easy  of  achievement! 

It  is  a  simple  road,  the  road  we  have  come, 
and  much  of  the  way  we  have  been  led  by  the 
hand,  childishly  and  unresistingly. 

Behind  us  forever  we  believe  are  the  simple 
events,  the  babyish  needs  and  desires — the  little 
brown  rabbits  of  the  plains. 

Ahead,  ahead,  we  dream,  we  shall  slip  away 
from  guiding  hands,  and  go  unsupported  in 
wider  ways  where  the  midday  sun  will  be  al- 
ways shining  in  a  sky  of  crystal  blue,  dispelling 

[233] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

even  the  inevitable  lurking  shadows  of  the 
bushes. 

The  prospect  is  too  large,  too  far-reaching 
to  be  considered  in  a  purely  worldly  light,  and 
so  we  turn  naturally  to  something  outside 
worldliness — something  for  which  we  may  even 
have  groped  dimly  in  days  gone  by,  but  which, 
unhappily,  has  come  to  us  chiefly,  hitherto,  in 
over-prosaic  guise,  or  in  terms  beyond  our  ken. 

Susan  Alicia  Marsh  (it  is  impossible  to  bring 
out  the  syllables  without  at  least  a  semblance 
of  music)  with  her  softly  pallid  face  and 
gentle,  blue-veined  hands,  augmented  this  nat- 
ural proclivity.  She  had  had  charge  of  at  least 
five  successive  installments  of  Cull  Prairie 
"Fifth  Readers,"  and  so  persistent  in  un- 
worldly fashion  was  she  for  all  her  gentleness, 
that  to  pass  out  from  under  her  supervision 
without  having  felt  at  least  the  tuggings  of 
one's  deeper  nature  was  enough  in  itself  to 
relegate  one  to  the  ranks  of  the  hopelessly 
unresponsive. 

"Ef  I  war  given  over  t'  sech  a  thing  ez  bet- 
tin',  I'd  bet  mos'  anything  that  some  man 
she'd  been  agoin'  with  hed  up  an'  died  on  'er," 

[234] 


JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT 

offered  Mittie  Peeler  romantically  when  the 
subject  came  up  for  neighborhood  discussion. 
"She  looks  t'  me  like  she's  been  disapp'inted." 

She  dragged  the  last  word  out  lingeringly, 
and  left  it  suspended  as  it  were  at  her  droop- 
ing, bluish  lips. 

"Shucks  an'  nonsense!"  morosely  objected 
"Grandma"  Prouty,  prancing  around  and 
snapping  her  crooked,  wrinkled  fingers  at  this 
exposition  of  the  case. 

"It's  jus'  like  ye,  Mittie  Peeler  t'  talk  that 
kind  o'  folderol!  Yassir!  Ye'd  come  up  with 
a  handful  o'  softness,  ye  would,  if  ye  went 
down  in  a  coal-cellar!  Nbsiree,  she  ain't  the 
kind  fer  love — not  her,  I'm  tellin'  ye!  Th' 
men  folks  hain't  gifted  with  th'  sense,  more's 
the  pity,  thet  leads  'em  t'  take  up  with  wimmin 
like  her.  It's  some  painted  fly-away  critter, 
more  like,  that's  awinnin'  'em.  An'  anyway, 
ef  one  of  'em'd  up  an'  died  on  'er,  the  way  you 
put  up,  whut's  t'  hinder  'er  frum  gittin'  an- 
other? She  ain't  turned  no  thirty  'ez  I'm 
abreathin',  an'  she's  got  th'  han'someness  about 
'er  o'  a  piece  o'  statooary,  ef  ye  take  th'  trouble 
t'  look  at  'er  twicet.  Now  I  got  a  notion,  I  hev, 

[235] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

it's  some  kind  o'  colicky  pains  o'  the  stumick 
that's  agivin'  her  them  blue  and  white  looks  o' 
her'n,  an'  ef  'tis,  an'  she's  jus'  agoin'  straight 
along,  atrustin'  t'  luck,  an'  not  takin'  nuthin' 
fer  'm  she's  like'n  t'  get  tuk  up  an'  swep'  away 
one  o'  these  days,  forty  years  afore  her  time!" 

The  feminine  "Fifth  Readers,"  newly  in- 
stalled, themselves  took  up  the  topic  in  its 
various  aspects. 

"My  Uncle  Llewellyn  says  her  profile  is 
Greek,"  thinly  chirped  the  pirouetting  Minnie 
Bird,  whose  dapper  kinsman  was  the  town  con- 
noisseur in  matters  of  this  sort.  "An'  Uncle 
Llewellyn  knows,  too!" 

"Well,  there's  one  thing  sure — she's  got  eyes 
a  whole  lot  like  the  Lady  Ermentrude's  in  that 
novel  Aunt  Mitt  took  away  from  me  las'  week," 
drawled  rosy  Joy  Peeler,  her  hands  on  her 
generous  hips.  "Wisht  I  had  it  back.  Aunt 
Mitt's  got  some  awful  funny  idees,  anyhow." 

Angelina  Bird,  also  of  the  group,  threw  out 
her  shabby-sleeved  arms  dramatically,  and 
twisted  like  a  contortionist  to  lay  her  head 
against  the  shoulder  of  Elizabeth  Anne.  "I 
dremp  las'  night  that  'nangel  come  down  with 

[236J 


JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT 

a  white  dress  for  her — silk  an'  all  inserting 
trimmed,"  she  whispered  for  her  ear  only. 
"D'ye  think  maybe  it's  a  sign  she's  goin'  t' 
die?" 

Elizabeth  Anne  impatiently,  and  rather  un- 
kindly, dislodged  the  confiding  head.  "You're 
just  a  bad  as  'Grandma'  Prouty,"  she  said 
crossly,  "and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed!" 

Such  is  the  elasticity  of  certain  stages  of 
girlish  adoration,  she  was  again  on  her  knees 
to  an  idol  at  the  very  antipodes  from  the  first 
she  had  known. 

Nor  was  her  worship  for  that  reason  in  any 
wise  half-hearted  or  unfruitful.  On  the  con- 
trary it  came  presently  to  blossom  in  a  patient 
smile,  a  superlatively  careful  modulation  of 
voice,  a  meek  lifting  of  the  eyes — strange 
things  that  moved  even  long-suffering  Caroline 
to  expostulation,  dear  Caroline  whose  untiring 
arms  now  held  a  new  baby,  her  lusty  Donald, 
whose  demands  upon  her  practically  excluded 
for  her  the  outside  world. 

It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  in  truth,  if 
Caroline  and  other  "Fifth  Reader"  mothers 
too,  no  doubt,  came  to  believe  in  those  days 

[237] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

that  the  outer  world  was  populated  mainly 
by  one,  a  sympathetic  and  altogether  prepos- 
sessing Susan  Alicia  Marsh. 

But  all  this  was  before  the  looming  into 
prominence  of  a  coming  "Last  Day,"  an  event 
clearly  destined  to  over-topple  any  of  its  pred- 
ecessors, and  outstripping  in  point  of  im- 
portance any  mere  individual,  even  its 
apparent  creator  and  instigator,  for  had  not 
Miss  Susan  decreed  that  "this  year"  the  ex- 
ercises were  to  take  place  in  the  new  little 
church  standing  in  white  isolation  on  the  very 
borders  of  the  South  Side? 

Cull  Prairie  as  a  whole  held  out  eager  arms 
to  the  occasion.  It  knew  not  the  distractions 
of  the  drama,  nor  the  lesser  charms  of  the 
"movies" ;  the  "Last  Day,"  therefore,  fell  upon 
a  virgin  field. 

And  such  a  field!  Junetime,  rosetime  and 
general  smiles  and  rejoicing  rolled  into  one, 
until  it  was  as  if  the  sunniest  window  of  heaven 
had  been  suddenly  opened,  and  the  smell  of 
heavenly  rosemary  wafted  down. 

The  sparrows  on  the  back  lawns  knew  about 
it,  and  came  and  chirped  sociably  of  their 

[238] 


JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT 

knowledge  under  one's  bedroom  window  at  the 
first  peeping  of  day,  until  one  lifted  one's 
drowsy  head  from  the  pillow  perforce,  and 
smiled  back  a  nodding  assent;  the  grasses  of 
the  meadowlot,  lush  and  kneedeep,  heard  of  it, 
and  whispered  their  approval  to  the  wind;  the 
"little  folk"  everywhere  delightedly  and  mys- 
teriously took  up  the  story. 

And  such  a  pleasing  rustle  of  paper  patterns 
and  essay  sheets  as  there  was  under  sundry 
favored  rooftrees,  and  such  an  undreamed 
lavishness  of  white  lawn  and  rainbow  ribbon. 

And  then,  at  the  last,  on  the  day  preceding 
the  great  event — oh,  crowning  feature  of  im- 
portance!— there  came  from  a  neighboring 
town  a  young  clergyman  who  was  to  make  the 
address,  and  who  smiled  so  happily  upon  Miss 
Susan  that  her  white  cheeks  took  on  a  delicate 
shell-pink  under  his  glance,  and  so  encourag- 
ingly upon  the  Fifth  Reader  class  that  it  after- 
ward followed  him  to  a  member,  for  all  the 
world,  as  Belle  O'Hara  later  observed,  as  if 
he  had  had  a  bear  on  a  chain,  or  a  performing 
monkey  with  a  velvet  cap. 

Nor  could  it  be  gainsaid  that  his  personal 

[239] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

charm  more  than  atoned  for  any  lack  of  this 
nature.  He  looked  like  a  hero  in  a  storybook, 
Elizabeth  Anne  maintained  (and  nowhere 
could  be  found  a  better  authority  on  this  sub- 
ject than  she). 

By  this,  she  explained,  she  meant,  in  partic- 
ular, his  superior  height  (he  towered  head  and 
shoulders  above  the  average  Prairieite),  the 
"nobility  of  his  brow,"  the  "deepness  of  his 
eyes"  and  the  "firmness  of  his  chin." 

It  is  a  pleasing  novelty,  it  must  be  admitted, 
to  discover  a  hero  when  one  has  known  only 
heroines,  more  especially  perhaps  a  hero  who 
fits  admirably  into  the  situation.  And  here 
indeed  was  one  at  hand — one  fitted  to  cope 
even  with  the  "Last  Day"  at  full  tide. 

One  knew  it  at  once  by  the  decision  of  his 
step  in  the  little  entry  on  the  eventful  night, 
by  the  gracious  nod  of  his  head  and  the  smiling 
assurance  with  which  he  made  his  way  into  the 
plush  seat  of  honor  beside  the  tiny  stand  with 
its  burden  of  syringas  and  ribbon-tied  diplo- 
mas. What  a  wave  of  expectation  there  was 
on  every  side  as  the  hush  fell,  and  the  breath- 
less little  organ  in  the  corner  bravely  gave 

[240] 


JUST    BEFORE    THE    GREAT    EVENT 

voice  to  its  fluttering  strains  of  welcome, 
faintly  and  musically  as  a  dying  echo. 

How  splendidly  the  lights  burned,  creating 
little  pools  of  sleeping  yellow  to  alternate  with 
the  grayness  of  shadows  on  the  dim  plastered 
walls  of  the  rough  hewn  edifice!  How  freely 
the  lilacs,  festooned  in  purple  luxuriance  about 
the  altar  rail,  gave  out  their  fragrance! 

But  the  Fifth  Reader  class  on  the  front 
benches  instinctively  closed  its  eyes  and  clasped 
its  essays  a  little  tighter  to  remember  that  once 
the  organ  ceased  and  the  ministerial  voice  of 
welcome  died  out,  the  burden  of  the  entertain- 
ment rested  upon  its  own  untried  effort. 

The  boys,  in  view  of  this  impending  disas- 
ter, began  to  wriggle,  and  crumple  their  caps, 
and  slip  down  so  low  in  their  places  that  only 
a  row  of  shorn  crowns  was  visible  over  the 
backs  of  their  benches;  the  girls  paled  and 
fumbled  with  their  handkerchiefs,  and  crowded 
closer  together. 

Minnie  Bird  was  alternately  biting  her  nails 
and  twirling  the  rings  on  her  overladen  fingers. 
Angelina  stared  straight  before  her,  open- 
mouthed  and  affrighted.  Belle  O'Hara,  rest- 

[241] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

less  and  solitary,  at  the  end  of  the  bench, 
divided  her  time  in  conning  over  her  lines  half 
audibly,  and  surreptitiously  soothing  old 
Snooty,  who  had  sneaked  in  with  the  evident 
intention  of  adding  his  voice  to  the  general 
acclaim. 

And  now  the  stress  began  to  gain  in  force. 
The  silence  deepened.  A  score  of  young  hearts  • 
pounded  coward-fashion  in  as  many  bravely 
decked  breasts.  The  room  grew  warmer,  and 
suddenly  very  large,  and  the  people  in  it 
loomed  up  as  a  multitude.  At  the  rear  of  the 
little  place  a  door  slammed  inauspiciously, 
sending  two  wavering  yellow  lights  to  their 
doom,  and  at  a  side  window  a  frightened  bird 
beat  its  wings  momentarily  against  the  glass. 

Yet,  encouragingly,  after  all,  the  burden 
came  directly  to  show  symptoms  of  lightening. 
One  by  one  the  appointed  victims  ascended  to 
be  met  with  such  beaming  good  humor  as  could 
not  help  put  them  at  their  ease.  One  by  one 
they  descended  to  an  enthusiastic  clapping  of 
hands  and  more  pronounced  beaming. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  last  in  order,  and  clinging 
hopefully  to  Aunt  Sarah's  advice  to  think  of 

[242] 


JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT 

the  audience  as  composed  of  clothespins,  grew 
horrified  for  a  moment  in  the  very  act  of  ascent 
to  find  herself,  in  the  extremity  of  her  need, 
repudiating  it. 

They  were  not  clothespins.  They  were 
Marthy  Prouty,  now  Mrs.  Beals,  gorgeous  in 
a  red  hat  with  a  nodding  purple  feather,  which 
the  triplets,  clustered  about  her,  made  frantic 
attempts,  ever  and  anon,  to  capture;  Mittie 
Peeler,  fighting  hopelessly  with  her  interrupt- 
ing cough;  "Grandma"  Prouty  with  her 
doughty  little  arms  folded  on  her  breast; 
"Uncle"  Pete,  who  applauded  with  his  cane; 
and  so  on  and  on  and  on.  And,  yes,  she 
wanted  to  please  them;  she  felt  sure  of  that, 
and  somehow  the  wish  helped  to  still  her  shak- 
ing fingers,  and  warm  her  heart,  and  lend  vigor 
to  her  voice. 

And  in  a  twinkling,  as  a  dreaded  tooth 
might  have  been  extracted,  it  was  all  over,  and 
the  applause  had  begun  again,  and  the  young 
minister  was  rising  and  stepping  forward  for 
some  parting  wrords. 

How  well  and  how  confidently  he  stood  his 
ground!  Was  it  possible  that  he  had  com- 

[243] 


THE   GENIUS    OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

pletely  mastered  the  "clothespins"  idea  in  ora- 
tory? .  .  .  But — no,  see!  he  was  growing 
visibly  less  calm;  his  eyes  gleamed,  and  his 
ruddy  cheeks  grew  ruddier,  as  he  leaned  nearer 
and  yet  nearer  the  almost  spent  "Fifth 
Readers." 

Was  there  not  one  among  them — just  one — 
who  would  make  the  decision  tonight  to  turn 
whatever  of  knowledge  he  might  be  fortunate 
enough  to  acquire  into  channels  of  usefulness 
in  the  better  life? 

The  youthful  band  before  him  forgot  the 
necessarily  impersonal  nature  of  the  appeal, 
and  hung  their  heads,  so  impassioned  was  he, 
so  stentorian  his  voice. 

The  girlish  figures  on  the  front  seat  moved 
agitatedly.  Elizabeth  Anne,  in  quite  the  cen- 
ter of  the  bench,  opposite  the  speaker,  looked 
about  her  inquiringly.  The  request  was  a 
simple  one.  Why  did  the  occupants  of  the 
benches  sit  with  downcast  eyes  and  reluctant 
air?  "Will  not  one,  only  one?"  The  speaker 
might  have  been  waiting.  His  pause  was  im- 
pressive— so  impressive  that,  momentary  in  its 

[244] 


JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT 

length,  it  appeared  to  stretch  over  many  times 
the  space  of  its  intensity. 

The  central  figure  of  the  row,  an  introverted 
shadow  of  anxiety  on  the  peacefulness  of  the 
scene,  wriggled  toward  him  sympathetically. 
Then,  unable  to  bear  it  longer,  she  leaned  for- 
ward impulsively  and  almost  without  her  own 
volition  threw  herself  headlong  into  the  breach. 
"I  will,"  said  Elizabeth  Anne  obligingly, 
wanting  only  to  bring  alleviation  of  possible 
embarrassment  to  her  lonely  towering  hero. 

But,  to  her  great  surprise,  he  seemed  for  a 
moment — just  a  moment — disconcerted,  and 
then,  the  exercises  having  concluded,  he 
stepped  down  to  her  side  with  a  big  laugh,  and 
shook  her  hand,  and  wished  her  well— wishes 
apparently  in  which  others  joined,  pressing 
about  her,  and  also  taking  her  hand. 

It  was  embarrassing — not  only  the  unex- 
pectedness of  these  salutations,  but  this  unfor- 
tunate aptitude  of  hers,  in  acquiring  unlocked 
for  publicity,  and  she  squirmed  about  and  bit 
her  lips  and  answered  at  random  and  lost  her 
peace  of  mind  altogether,  until  Miss  Susan 
having  made  her  way  to  her  side,  she  felt  the 

[245] 


THE    GENIUS    OF   ELIZABETH    ANNE 

touch  of  soothing  hands  on  her  hot  cheeks,  and 
Miss  Susan's  gentle  voice  was  saying  that  she 
was  pleased,  more  than  pleased,  and  that  she 
hoped  that  her  dear  little  pupil  would  not  for- 
get, in  view  of  her  new  decision,  to  use  her  in- 
fluence for  good  not  only  with  the  younger 
brothers  and  sisters  at  home,  but  with  her 
schoolmates  in  general. 

Sweet,  fallible  Miss  Susan,  a  little  dazed 
perhaps  that  night  with  her  own  happiness, 
and  poor  Elizabeth  Anne,  with  her  skin-deep 
experience  and  with  no  diplomacy  to  spare ! 

She  took  note  of  the  expression  "use  your  in- 
fluence," which  impressed  her.  She  turned  it 
over  and  over  in  thought,  and  arriving,  in  a 
sense,  at  its  meaning,  tested  its  efficacy  to  her 
sorrow.  For  if  there  be  one  unfailing  recipe 
for  the  loss  of  the  love  of  one's  fellowman,  it 
consists  simply  in  a  pedantic  endeavor  to  "use 
one's  influence"  with  him. 

The  worshiper  of  Miss  Susan  did  not  arrive 
at  this  deduction  in  a  bound.  It  was  rather 
by  degrees  more  or  less  painful.  But  an  ink- 
ling, a  straw  which  showed  the  general  direc- 
tion of  the  wind,  came  her  way  on  the  Satur- 

[246] 


JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT 

day  following  when  she  happened  upon  Robert 
and  his  pet  foeman,  Teague  O'Hara,  Junior, 
engaged  in  their  usual  holiday  discussion  anent 
the  merits  and  achievements  of  their  respective 
fathers.  The  argument  was  at  the  point  of 
branching  out  and  waxing  warm. 

"Shure,  me  fayther  cud  put  duck's  fate 
undher  a  hin,"  vouched  the  confident  Teague 
with  a  swagger. 

"But  my  father  once  killed  a  giant,  I  tell 
you,"  interposed  the  less  ready  Robert,  red  to 
the  ears,  and  falling  back  upon  a  worn  topic. 
"He  hung  him  to  an  apple  tree,  an'  I'll  show 
you  th'  rope  in  our  attic  any  time  you  want  t' 
see  it." 

This  was  designed  to  enter  into  the  high 
road  to  hostilties,  but  the  provoking  Teague 
hung  back  with  a  fine  show  of  indifference. 
"Faith,  thin,  an'  ye  kin  sphare  yerself  th* 
throuble,  me  bye,"  he  returned  with  scathing 
coolness ;  "  'tis  th'  same  he  borryed  off  me  own 
fayther  fer  t'  do  th'  hangin'  wid,  an'  we'd  be 
thankin'  ye  kindly  fer  th'  raturn  o'  the  same." 

"Prove  it,"  snarled  Robert,  driven  to  the 
wall,  and  deepening  apoplectically  in  hue. 

[247] 


THE   GENIUS   OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

"Do  Oi  take  thot  t'  mane  ye're  misdoubtin* 
me  wurrd?"  Teague's  able  right  arm  now 
flailed  the  air  with  a  menacing  movement. 

The  slower,  but  no  less  sturdy,  member  of 
his  opponent  rose  vindictively  for  a  counter 
blow,  only  to  be  met  by  a  timidly  restraining 
sisterly  hand,  while  a  sisterly  voice,  small  and 
uncertain  and  barely  recognizable,  was  re- 
proaching: "Why,  Robert,  don't  you  remem- 
ber we  ought  to  forgive  our  enemies  unto  sev- 
enty times  seven?"  (This  had  been  gleaned 
from  a  recent  Sunday-school  lesson.) 

"Is  th'  gur-rl  wrong  in  her  hid?"  gasped 
Teague,  dropping  his  fist  and  backing  almost 
to  the  fence  in  a  mastering  surprise. 

"Ah,  g'  way,"  growled  Robert,  marching 
up  to  the  peacemaker  with  a  lordly  front.  "If 
you  wanta  talk  in  figgers,  why  don't  you 
reckon  it  up  ?  .  .  .  You  can't  do  it,  that's 
why!"  triumphantly.  .  .  .  "How  much  is 
it,  then?"  advancing  a  grimy  forefinger  till 
it  all  but  brushed  her  nose.  "How  much? 

.     .     How  much?" 

And  Elizabeth  Anne,  tried  in  the  balance 
mathematically  and  found  wanting,  retired  in 

[248] 


JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT 

discomfiture,  with  the  sneers  of  the  two  boys 
sounding  in  her  ears. 

It  was  humiliating  enough,  but  there  were 
depths  of  humiliation  below,  depths  furnished, 
at  that,  by  so  light  and  inconsequent  a 
character  as  Joy  Peeler. 

In  the  course  of  the  years,  Joy  had  changed 
from  a  quiet,  tragic-eyed  little  girl  to  a  rollick- 
ing, overgrown  big  one,  with  the  shiftless  blood 
of  her  ancestry  running  riot  in  her  veins.  Miss 
Susan  (in  school  parlance)  had  "picked  on" 
Joy,  criticising  mildly  but  harassingly  her 
every  movement,  no  doubt  with  a  view  to  bet- 
ter things,  and  it  was  only  natural  that  a  faith- 
ful satellite  should  cast  its  light  in  a  similar 
direction. 

Not  that  Joy  was  particularly  suspectible 
to  illumination,  as  one  might  have  seen  almost 
at  a  glance,  noting  her  coming  up  the  street 
on  a  certain  Sunday  afternoon,  her  jaws  work- 
ing cheerfully  on  a  huge  wad  of  gum,  her 
"Quarterly"  bobbing  frantically  at  the  end  of 
a  ribbon,  and  a  host  of  black,  coquettish  ring- 
lets fairly  dancing  at  her  temples. 

"It's  a  pleasant  day,"  observed  Elizabeth 

[249] 


THE   GENIUS    OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

Anne,  awkwardly  falling  into  step,  and  speak- 
ing in  the  wee,  wretched  voice  that  was  all  she 
could  command  in  these  trying  times  of 
purpose. 

Joy  looked  down  from  her  superior  height, 
and  sniffed.  "Well,  what  of  it?"  she  asked 
easily  and  ungraciously. 

"Why — why — nothing,  of  course,"  stam- 
mered her  companion  miserably,  resolutely 
conquering  a  rising  desire  to  flee  ere  her  feet 
touched  deeper  waters.  "An' — an'  I  s'pose 
you  know  I  didn't  run  after  you  just  to  talk 
about  the  weather.  .  .  .  It — it's  some- 
thing you  do  in  Sunday-school  I  was  think- 
ing about.  .  .  .  It's  only  that — that" — 
taking  the  plunge  with  closed  eyes  and  a  work- 
ing throat — "well,  you  don't  seem  to  care  very 
much  for  the  Twenty-third  psalm.  You  al- 
ways chew  your  gum,  or  curl  your  hair  on 

your  finger,  when  the  school  recites  it,  an' 
j j " 

But  Joy  Peeler,  her  dimpled  hands  on  her 
shaking  sides,  had  broken  into  a  loud,  tolerant 
laugh. 

"Why,  you  odd  little  jigger,"  she  said  at 

[250] 


JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT 

length,  with  good-natured  contempt,  eyeing 
the  speaker  as  one  might  eye  a  puppy  that  had 
stood  on  his  hind  legs  to  reprove  one,  "you  odd 
little  jigger!"  And  her  cowed  adviser,  flush- 
ing and  paling  under  her  scrutiny,  concluded 
mournfully  that  there  must  be  something 
wrong  with  this  method  of  exerting  one's  in- 
fluence. Surely  there  must  be  some  other  less 
offensive  way. 

It  was  while  she  was  casting  about  in  her 
mind  to  settle  this  perplexing  matter  that  a 
famous  temperance  lecturer  from  a  distant 
city  chanced  to  visit  the  Sunday-school.  Un- 
like the  young  minister,  he  was  short  and  stout 
and  rough  and  gray-bearded,  but  he,  too,  had, 
as  he  said,  a  special  message  for  the  young 
people — a  statement  that  sent  an  anticipatory 
hush  into  several  wriggling  quarters. 

He  believed,  he  said  further,  that  the  mem- 
bers of  the  school,  young  as  they  were  in  the 
majority  of  cases,  should  become  acquainted  at 
once  with  the  most  vital  question  of  the  day. 
He  was  a  forceful  speaker,  and  his  hearers 
shuddered  and  sighed  and  wondered  if  by  any 
stretch  of  the  imagination  they  could  be  called 

[261] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

drunkards,  as  he  laid  bare  in  denunciatory  tide, 
the  evils  of  a  life  of  intemperance. 

"Please,  Mister,"  piped  Angelina  Bird  in 
the  midst  of  the  situation,  waving  aloft  a  little 
thin-fingered  hand  in  a  vain  effort  to  stem  the 
gradually  rising  current,  "Cull  Prairie  ain't  no 
drunken  town!  You'll  not  get  a  drop  o'  th' 
Devil's  broth  nearer'n  Piperstown,  so  now!" 

Thirty-five  youthful  heads  shook  their  part 
in  this  denial.  Thirty-five  youthful  right 
hands  ached  to  rise,  even  as  simple  Angelina's, 
and  still  the  turbulent  flow  went  on. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  sitting  bolt  upright  in  her 
chair,  her  thin  lips  indrawn,  her  arms  locked 
upon  her  breast,  and  chills  creeping  up  her 
spine,  almost  popped  from  her  seat  presently 
to  hear  thundered  the  ringing  sentence:  "Use 
your  influence  against  it."  The  remainder  of 
the  lecture,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  fell 
upon  deaf  ears.  She  saw — she  saw —  ah,  what 
did  she  not  see?  For  several  holiday  after- 
noons thereafter  she  mysteriously  disappeared, 
and  when  she  finally  emerged  from  a  favorite 
hiding-place  she  carried  with  her  a  precious 

[  252  ] 


JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT 

scarred  pencil  and  a  not  over-clean  sheet  of 
paper  which  bore  the  following: 

THE  DRUNKARD 

He  toils  not,  neither  does  he  spin, 

For  strong  drink  surely  has  the  best  of  him. 

He  lives  within  four  miserable  walls, 

And  scarlet  are  the  veins  on  his  eyeballs. 

He  cares  not  for  his  little  children  five, 

And  scolds  and  kicks  his  starved  and  ragged  wife. 

His  children  stay  all  day  out  in  the  street; 

They  hunt  'most  everywhere  for  bread  to  eat. 

Their  eyes  are  never  filled  with  fun  and  joy, 

They  sob  and  cry  just  like  the  baby  boy 

The  poor  wife  carries  all  day  long, 

And  tries  so  hard  to  sing  a  song. 

Oh,  how  the  mother  shivers  when  it's  cold, 

Her  shawl  is  thin,  and  oh,  so  very  old. 

She  wraps  the  baby  in  it  now, 

And  lays  him  down  with  one  kiss  for  his  brow. 

But  in  the  morn  when  she  called  "  Wake  up,  honey! " 

The  angels  had  adopted  baby  Johnny. 

Oh,  there  are  way  and  ways  of  spreading 
one's  influence!  Elizabeth  Anne  had  had  the 
Cull  Prairie  Sun  in  mind  at  the  beginning, 
but  why  weakly  limit  oneself?  There  was  a 
more  assuming  paper,  The  Fortnightly,  on 
the  sitting-room  table,  and  to  this,  on  consid- 
eration, "The  Drunkard"  was  secretly  dis- 

[253] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

patched,  the  cost  of  its  sending  being  defrayed 
by  the  sacrifice  of  two  days'  licorice. 

Its  publication  was  to  be  Caroline's  surprise, 
for  its  author  had  wonderful  visions  of  it  in 
print.  She  knew  it  would  appear,  so  she  af- 
firmed to  herself,  for  a  twofold  reason  that  had 
lately  been  revealed  to  her ;  she  had  prayed  that 
it  might  be,  and  Miss  Susan  had  said  that  with 
prayer  all  things  were  possible. 

Thus  far  in  life,  from  the  earliest  days  of 
her  memory,  she  had  repeated  only  the  care- 
fully reverent  "Our  Father"  of  Caroline's 
teaching.  Now  she  added  a  strangely  fervid 
clause  of  her  own  making,  which  she  persisted 
in  despite  its  seeming  incongruity.  Sometimes 
she  buried  her  face  prophet-wise  in  the  loose 
sleeves  of  her  gingham  apron  and  repeated  the 
words  out  of  prayer  season. 

It  was  something  of  a  shock,  therefore,  when 
after  the  lapse  of  four  patient  weeks,  "The 
Drunkard"  returned  in  his  original  condition, 
together  with  a  yellow  and  unfeeling  communi- 
cation which  began  absurdly:  "Dear  Madam," 
and  ended  with  some  remarks  almost  disagree- 
ably polite. 

[254] 


JUST  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  EVENT 

"It  may  have  been  only  an  oversight,"  en- 
couraged Caroline  with  a  troubled  inflection 
when  she  was  let  into  the  secret.  She  was  not 
sure  that  she  was  pleased  at  the  independence 
of  the  act,  but  she  did  not  mean  to  be  wanting 
in  sympathy.  "I  shouldn't  worry  about  it, 
dear." 

Elizabeth  Anne's  response  was  inarticulate. 
She  stood  with  drooping  head  and  baffled  eyes, 
feeling  very  much  as  she  had  felt  years  before, 
when,  having  offered  all  the  propitiation  in  her 
power  to  the  strange  creature  who  had  dis- 
pensed the  measles,  she  had  yet  fallen  a  victim. 
They  will  take  no  denial,  these  insistent  whys 
that  come  out  to  meet  us  so  early  in  the  way. 
And  sometimes  we  set  down  our  answer  la- 
boriously, and  again  in  a  fashion  quite  offhand. 

It  is  all  one.  At  best  the  answer  is  only  a 
guess.  But  over  and  over,  we  must  meet  it 
somehow — the  unanswerable  question  that 
unfailingly  confronts  us  at  every  turn  of  the 
way! 


[255  ] 


"HONORABLE  MENTION" 


XVII 
"HONORABLE  MENTION" 

"Know  ye  not,"  said  a  dog-eared  little  book 
— Miss  Susan's  gift,  and  the  most  prominent 
object  on  Elizabeth  Anne's  squatty  bureau — 
"that  they  who  run  in  a  race  run  all,  but  one 
receiveth  the  prize." 

To  Elizabeth  Anne,  the  daily  morning  chap- 
ter had  become  something  more  than  a  habit. 
To  omit  it,  she  had  discovered  from  past  ex- 
perience, or  to  close  the  book  on  an  unfinished 
chapter,  was  to  cheat  oneself  of  the  vision  of 
Miss  Susan's  mystic-blue,  approving  eyes 
looking  at  one  over  the  tops  of  the  pages. 

Elizabeth  Anne  had  no  desire  to  lose,  in  any 
part,  the  sweet  memory  of  a  lost  divinity,  and 
many  and  varied  were  the  ways  in  which  she 
sought  to  stimulate  it,  but  at  this  point  she 
dropped  the  little  volume  with  a  small  thud. 

So  even  this,  her  gift-book,  her  fetich,  had 
entered  into  the  conspiracy!  Was  there  no- 

[259] 


where  one  could  turn  in  avoidance  of  a  hated 
subject? 

It  had  all  begun  portentously  enough  with 
the  Grammar  School  and  Principal  Sensor 
and  one  Judge  Merritt,  a  leading  citizen  ( lead- 
ing whither  none  could  tell),  and  the  end  was 
still  afar. 

Principal  Sensor,  who  was  a  large,  healthy, 
restless  man,  and  who,  like  the  majority  of  his 
sex  to  whom  nature  has  been  kind,  had  a  caged 
appearance  in  the  schoolroom,  seemed  to  gloat 
over  the  thing.  He  had  risen  ostentatiously 
before  the  first  year  class;  he  had  toyed  with 
the  wart  on  his  chin,  and  tugged  at  his  silk- 
dotted  vest,  and  ran  his  hands  through  his 
curly  brown  hair. 

Cull  Prairie,  he  said,  when  he  had  cleared  his 
throat  to  his  satisfaction,  was  blessed  with  a 
philanthropist,  a  real  philanthropist,  who  had 
deigned  to  interest  himself  in  the  newcomers 
to  the  Grammar  School.  Despair  laid  its  heavy 
fingers  on  the  first  year  class.  It  felt  fitted 
in  its  new  importance  to  cope  with  many 
things.  It  had  withstood,  not  altogether  with- 
out credit  to  itself,  oratory  and  temperance, 

[260] 


"HONORABLE    MENTION" 

but  philanthropy,  real  philanthropy!  Where 
would  it  stop?  Guileless  eyes  met  others  yet 
more  guileless;  a  faint  murmur  went  around. 

The  big  man  was  striking  the  blackboard  in 
sharp  little  raps  like  an  enterprising  flicker. 
Philanthropy,  it  appeared,  had  to  do  variously 
with  so-called  themes,  a  contest,  a  committee  of 
citizens,  and  a  gold  medal. 

The  themes,  looming  well  to  the  fore, 
sprawled  across  the  board  from  top  to  bottom : 
"Homes  Without  Hands,"  "Fighting  Wind- 
mills" (Elizabeth  Anne  had  already  stricken 
both  of  these  from  the  list,  mentally,  in  the 
belief  that  she  had  never  seen  the  former  with 
hands,  and  that  the  other  was  beneath  her  no- 
tice) ;  "Politeness,"  "Parasites,"  "Winter 
Sports,"  "Whiskers,"  and  so  on  uninspiringly. 

The  first  year  class  leaned  back;  its  gaze 
traveled  unenthusiastically  from  Mr.  Sensor's 
silk  dots,  out  across  the  lawn  where  catbirds 
were  screeching  joyously  and  irresponsibly 
through  a  soft  flow  of  rain;  and  ingenious 
ideas  of  loopholes  gathered  in  several  alert  and 
speculative  minds. 

The  erstwhile  Fifth  Reader  class,  Section 

[261] 


THE   GENIUS    OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

One,  looked  hopefully  and  pointedly  at  Eliza- 
beth Anne,  who  colored  violently  and  felt, 
reasonably  enough,  that  in  the  opprobrious  epi- 
thet, "Fairy-chaser,"  she  should  have  settled 
her  score  with  fate,  and  wiped  out  the  past. 
As  it  happened,  the  score  refused  to  be  settled. 

"I  presume  that  Miss  Elizabeth  will  soon 
be  wearing  a  gold  medal,"  said  Mrs.  Lean,  on 
a  parish  call,  with  the  most  charitable  inten- 
tion, and  "Miss  Elizabeth"  wondered  why  she 
had  never  before  detected  the  spice  of  malice 
that  lay  beneath  that  lady's  broad  and  benevo- 
lent exterior. 

"It'll  be  jus'  th'  sweetest  thing,"  mused  Mit- 
tie  Peeler  drawlingly,  fondling  the  white  kitten 
in  her  lap;  "you  kin  tie  it  onto  Poody,  here, 
with  a  blue  ribbon.  I  hev  seen  decorated  cats, 
hain't  you,  amongst  the  way-up  folks?" 

"Mitt  Peeler,"  jibed  Grandma  Prouty, 
whose  back  got  a  little  rounder,  and  whose 
views  a  little  gloomier,  each  year,  but  who 
seemed  likely  to  live  to  be  a  hundred,  "thar's 
times  when  I  bleeve  ye  hain't  jest  hitched  up 
right,  someway,  in  yer  wits.  Th'  idee  o' 
stringin'  a  valyable  like  that  onto  a  cat's  neck ! 

[262] 


"HONORABLE    MENTION" 

Abody'd  think  yer  pore  ol'  head'd  about  run 
down  fer  sure.  Now,  if  I  'a'  won  a  thing  like 
that  thar  medal  when  I  wuz  a  gal,  I'd  never  'a' 
been  satisfied  less'n  I'd  'a'  hed  it  laid  by 
somewhar  in  cotton  fer  t'  wear  with  m* 
shroud!" 

"We  are  somewhat  acquainted  with  Judge 
Merritt,  who  once  visited  at  the  Richman's 
here,"  wrote  Grandmother  Stratman  in  her 
nice,  small-lettered  hand,  "and  who,  Mrs. 
Richman  tells  me,  is  now  offering  a  prize  for 
composition  in  your  school.  It  seems  to  me 
that  since  Elizabeth  has  given  all  of  her  time 
to  this  work"  (one  could  almost  hear  the  sigh 
that  was  here  inserted)  "she  ought  to  be  able 
to  win.  Under  the  circumstances  it  would  be 
some  satisfaction  to  me,  I  must  admit." 

"Looks  like  you're  elected,  Bet,"  chuckled 
Robert,  thrusting  his  hands  with  an  assump- 
tion of  manliness  into  the  pockets  of  his  first 
long  trousers. 

"Arrah,  Mavourneen,  'tis  yerself'll  be  the 
lucky  young  lady,"  flattered  Mrs.  O'Hara, 
waddling  up  behind. 

"Pooh,"   quoth   Aunt    Sarah    in    practical 

[263] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

offset,  "them  glitterin'  things  're  all  in  your 
eye.  I  don't  believe  I'd  's  much  as  give  it 
houseroom.  I  hate  clutterers!" 

"But  of  course  you  will  win,  child,"  said 
Caroline  afterward  in  dreamy  expectancy. 
"Everyone  seems  to  think  so.  A  gold  medal! 
Only  fancy!" 

"What?  What's  this  I  hear?"  queried 
David,  looking  up  dazedly  from  a  socialistic 
paragraph  that  had  held  him  recently  with 
close  fascination  in  his  rare  spare  moments. 
"A  gold  medal,  did  you  say?  Can't  father  see 
it?  Show  it  to  father!" 

The  hand  he  held  out  was  pitiably  calloused 
and  scarred,  and  a  purple  bruise  showed  itself 
vividly  across  the  nails. 

Elizabeth  Anne  turned  away  her  head.  The 
sight  of  it  had  of  late  come  to  fill  her  with  a 
heavy  sense  of  her  own  helplessness,  and  a 
sort  of  dread  as  of  some  shadowy  grim  arbiter 
of  their  common  fate.  But  it  checked  the  im- 
patient response  that  rose  to  her  lips. 

"I  haven't  won  anything  yet,  father,"  she 
said  with  slow,  forced  patience,  picking  up  a 
book  to  depart. 

[  264  ] 


"HONORABLE    MENTION" 

Outside,  Belle  O'Hara  was  waiting,  wearing 
her  best  dress  with  a  scarlet  collar.  Her  brief 
school  days  were  over,  and  she  was  on  her 
way  to  the  factory  to  apply  for  work. 

"Phwat's  all  this  talk  about  a  prize  I'm 
hearin'?"  she  began  at  once,  accommodating 
her  pace  to  the  shorter  stride.  "  'Tis  me 
blessin'  ye  hov  anyhow." 

Elizabeth  Anne  pulled  her  narrow  hat  brim 
down  closer  over  her  eyes  and  an  actual,  faint 
pallor  spread  under  the  streaks  of  freckles 
across  her  cheeks. 

"Don't  say  anything  about  it,  Belle,"  she 
begged  with  a  short,  sharp  catch  in  her  voice, 
"please  don't.  I  feel  now  as  if  a  chunk  of  the 
world  had  got  out  of  place  some  way,  and  was 
hanging  right  in  the  middle  of  my  back." 

"Oi  niver  took  no  notice  av  it,"  returned 
Belle,  gravely  inspecting  the  spot.  "This 
janius  is  poor  sthuff,  so  'tis.  F'river  carked  up 
whin  ye're  afther  nadin'  it,  an'  th'  cark  sthuck 
in  f'r  dear  loife!  But  begorry,  gur-rl,  if  ye're 
wantin'  a  pointer:  'tis  a  committee  I  hear'll  be 
awardin'  th'  proize;  they'll  be  lukin'  f'r  some- 
thin'  highfalutin',  I'm  thinkin'.  Sthring  in  th' 

[265  ] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

big  wur-rds  f 'r  all  ye're  worth.  Shure  th'  dic- 
tionary'11  niver  be  missin'  'em." 

At  the  corner  she  turned,  and  waved  her 
hand  airily  in  farewell. 

"Sometimes,"  she  called  back  soberly,  "ye 
can  do  no  betther  'n  t'  take  th'  advoice  of  a 
fool." 

Elizabeth  Anne,  with  still  a  half  hour's  idle 
time  on  her  hands,  walked  on  soberly  through 
the  dancing  vagrant  motes  of  September  sun- 
shine, and  deliberated.  Slowly,  slowly,  a  light 
began  to  break,  and  hope  appeared  like  a  tiny 
freshet  at  the  bottom  of  a  dry  arroyo.  Now 
that  she  applied  her  mind  to  the  fact,  there 
was  a  "dictionary"  word  such  as  Belle  had  sug- 
gested that  she  remembered  having  lately  hap- 
pened upon  and  thought  highly  impressive.  It 
chanced  to  be  "courteousness,"  and  if  her 
memory  served  her  rightly  it  stood  opposite 
the  commoner  term  "politeness."  And  "Po- 
liteness" was  the  third  in  the  Judge's  list  of 
topics ! 

Elizabeth  Anne  had  not  been  years  under 
Belle's  decisive  tutorship  for  nothing.  Neither 
was  she  in  the  habit  of  letting  the  grass  grow 

[266] 


"HONORABLE    MENTION" 

under  her  feet.  By  recess  time  she  had  pre- 
pared with  a  selected  list  of  unimpeachably 
weighty  words  a  sort  of  working  basis.  At 
night,  being  elaborated,  it  appeared  somewhat 
in  this  fashion: 

POLITENESS 

"Politeness  is  courteousness.  The  populace 
do  not  know  much  about  it,  nor  care — only  the 
elevated.  The  behavior  of  the  elevated  is  very 
distinguishable  from  that  of  the  populace,  and 
they  are  called  ladies  and  gentlemen  instead 
of  just  plain  men  and  women.  Some  boys  are 
conclusively  lacking  in  courteousness,  and  cre- 
ate perturbation  wherever  they  go.  Such  char- 
acters ought  to  be  concisely  dealt  with.  It  is 
egotistical  not  to  be  in  possession  of  courteous- 
ness,  and  it  shows  that  one  has  no  benignity. 
A  person  like  this  is  called  uncourtly  or  dis- 
courteous, and  is  meritorious  of  the  contempt 
of  all." 

Later,  under  the  evening  lamp,  Caroline 
came  upon  this  brief  but  weighty  array  of 
knowledge  as  it  slipped  from  the  "Beginners' 

[267] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

Botany"  to  the  floor  during  its  writer's  transit 
to  her  own  room.  Her  eyes  shone  like  twin 
stars  as  she  held  it  up  to  the  light.  "Only 
listen,  David,"  she  cried,  "from  such  a  child!" 
And  her  pleased  voice  meandered  through  the 
intricate  syllables. 

David  was  still  deep  in  his  article,  but  he 
was  aware  that  a  most  high-flown  communica- 
tion had  fallen  upon  his  ears.  He  shoved  the 
paper  aside  and  looked  across  the  table  at  his 
wife's  bent  and  shining  head  and  half-opened 
flower  lips.  It  meant  daily  sacrifice  on  the 
part  of  all  concerned  for  Elizabeth  Anne  to 
remain  in  the  Grammar  School,  but  through 
all  the  household  no  mention  was  ever  made  of 
the  fact.  If  some  staple  article  of  food  were 
absent  occasionally  from  the  table,  no  one 
seemed  to  miss  it.  If  the  absence  became  too 
conspicuous,  a  laugh  went  round. 

After  all,  a  prince  may  know  more  of  pov- 
erty than  a  high-minded  poor  man.  And 
David  was  a  master  of  the  art  of  contentment. 

"Our  girl?"  he  said  surprisedly  at  last. 
"Our  girl!  Well,  well,  it  might  have  come 

[  268  ] 


"HONORABLE    MENTION" 

from  the  President  of  the  United   States!" 
And,  for  once,  Caroline  was  satisfied. 

A  committee  of  citizens,  however,  proved 
another  matter.  It  was  bored,  frankly  bored, 
by  the  heap  of  written  material,  and  only  a 
generous  supply  of  cigars  and  a  constant  de- 
parture from  the  subject  in  hand,  kept  up  its 
spirits  sufficiently  to  hold  it  together. 

But  the  chairman  found  something,  after 
considerable  searching,  that  mildly  struck  his 
fancy.  It  was  about  the  "Woods  in  Winter" 
and  the  text  was  a  matter  of  small  moment, 
for  it  was  illustrated  in  a  very  creditable  way, 
the  penmanship  was  elaborate,  and  a  handsome 
bow  of  red  ribbon  held  the  pages  together. 
The  chairman,  it  chanced,  was  interested  in 
trees ;  he  was  also  interested  in  drawing,  a  sub- 
ject  that  he  insisted  ought  to  be  added  to  the 
curriculum. 

And  so  to  Minnie  Bird,  to  whom  the  compo- 
sition belonged — Minnie  Bird  who  loved  to 
draw  and  to  make  fancily  curled  and  shaded 
letters,  but  who  seldom  took  the  trouble  to 
formulate  a  correct  English  sentence — was 
awarded  the  gold  medal.  And  to  Elizabeth 

[269] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

Anne  Langdon,  whose  work  in  composition  had 
been  taken  note  of  before,  the  chairman  an- 
nounced—  (in  justice  to  the  committee  be  it 
added  that  it  had  not  been  taken  note  of  on  this 
occasion) — was  awarded  Honorable  Mention 
for  her  effort  (the  effort  part  of  it  was  true 
enough) . 

Elizabeth  Anne  received  the  announcement 
with  furrowed  brow.  Honorable  Mention! 
What  might  one  be  expected  to  do  with  it, 
pray  ?  It  was  impossible,  obviously,  to  show  it 
to  one's  friends,  or  to  put  it  away  in  a  cotton- 
lined  box  for  safe  keeping. 

A  gold  medal  would  have  been  bad  enough 
in  point  of  utility,  but  this,  this  was  not  even  a 
tangible  thing  that  could  be  used  to  "hang  onto 
Poody,"  or  as  a  decoration  for  the  bosom  of 
one's  shroud! 

It  was  the  outer  semblance,  the  empty  shell 
of  an  honor,  it  must  be  admitted,  and  for  fully 
three  days  the  recipient  drooped.  Then,  the 
real  life  of  the  Grammar  School  having 
revealed  itself  to  her,  a  joyous  reaction  set  in. 

For  the  real  life  of  the  Grammar  School  was 
social  in  its  nature.  It  began  at  about  the  third 

[270] 


"HONORABLE    MENTION" 

week  with  an  evening  party — a  surprise  for  a 
girl  named  Isabel.  The  first  year  class,  all  of 
whose  members  were  invited,  with  admirable 
social  latitude  (provided  each  supplied  some 
article  of  refreshment),  segregated  itself  into 
groups,  and  discussed  the  matter  with  befitting 
seriousness. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  in  the  rebound,  threw  her- 
self into  the  function  heart  and  soul,  and  Caro- 
line, delighted  at  her  returning  animation, 
decided  at  once  upon  a  first  party  dress.  No 
one  but  she  knew  what  pinching  and  planning 
a  new  gown  would  involve,  but  so  successfully 
did  she  scheme  that  the  result  of  her  labors  is 
still  a  matter  of  family  history.  The  material 
of  the  dress  was  cashmere,  a  then  much  worn 
fabric,  and  the  color  a  warm  shade  of  wine, 
relieved  by  cream-white  frills  at  the  throat  and 
wrists.  The  yoke  and  girdle  were  of  velvet  in 
a  harmonizing  shade,  and  the  latter  was  fast- 
ened with  a  buckle  set  with  a  sparkling  red 
ornament. 

This  trinket  was  the  crown  of  the  wearer's 
bliss,  and  her  meagre  face,  lyric  with  happi- 
ness, rivalled  it  in  radiance,  as  she  sat,  basket 

[271] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

in  hand,  on  the  looked- for  evening,  awaiting 
the  arrival  of  those  who  were  to  call  for  her. 

Gone  for  a  season,  at  least,  were  the  marks 
of  the  ugly  duckling.  Elizabeth  Anne's  angles 
in  the  evening  dimness  softened  obligingly  into 
curves;  her  deep  gray  eyes  held  an  invitation 
to  the  coming  woman ;  her  cheeks  and  lips  were 
touched  with  the  first  freshness  of  youth. 

Truly,  truly,  earth's  mainroads  for  one's  feet 
were  wide  and  pleasant,  and  life  was  a  "jar  of 
rose  wine  set  high  in  the  air!" 

Caroline,  surveying  her  with  ill-concealed 
admiration,  moved  about  adjusting  a  curl  here 
and  a  frill  there,  so  it  was  David  who,  lamp  in 
hand,  was  left  to  open  the  door  at  the  modest 
little  tap  that  came  presently. 

It  was  David,  too,  who  started  back  abruptly 
as  the  door  swung  ajar,  and  muttered  an  invol- 
untary ejaculation  of  surprise.  He  could  not 
tell  afterward  whether  it  was  the  very  red  hair 
of  the  Red-Headed  Boy  who  stood  doffing  his 
hat  in  the  lamplight,  or  the  scent  of  the  berga- 
mot,  or  the  gleaming  whiteness  of  his  shirt 
bosom,  that  had  overcome  him  momentarily, 

[272] 


"HONORABLE    MENTION" 

but  certain  it  was  he  had  not  expected  to  see  a 
young  man  on  his  threshold. 

It  was  only  John,  who  had  quite  naturally 
rapped  while  the  others  waited  at  the  gate,  as 
Elizabeth  Anne  explained  next  morning,  but 
somehow  John  had  given  to  David,  who  had 
last  noticed  him  as  a  toddler,  a  sharp  thrust  as 
to  the  passing  of  time. 

Caroline  was  surprised  to  see  him  take  a 
little  hand-glass  from  his  pocket  after  the 
departure  of  the  two,  and  examine  his  hair  and 
the  beard  he  had  lately  come  to  wear,  with  a 
sigh.  In  her  heart,  she  sighed,  too,  but  not  for 
the  passing  of  her  youth,  for  the  real  mother- 
soul  is  selfless.  It  was  only  for  a  sudden 
glimpse  of  what  the  future  might  mean  to 
Elizabeth  Anne.  Elizabeth  Anne  stripped  of 
a  "career"  and  destined  to  wifehood  and  moth- 
erhood, Elizabeth  Anne  who  had  never  moth- 
ered a  doll,  nor  patched  a  tear,  nor  baked  so 
much  as  a  playhouse  cake! 

Here,  the  sigh  becoming  as  large  as  a  prayer, 
she  slipped  into  her  bedroom,  and  onto  her 
knees,  for  she  was  still  wont  to  pray,  simply, 
out  of  the  desire  of  her  heart,  even  as  Eliza- 

[  278  ] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

beth  Anne  (only  that  she  did  not  bury  her 
face  in  her  apron  sleeve) ,  but  the  boon  that  she 
asked  was  so  slow  in  putting  itself  into  words 
that  she  rose  uncertainly,  and  walked  to  the 
window,  staring  out  at  the  starlit  sky  and  the 
two  pine  trees  at  the  gate  that  pointed  forever 
heavenward,  until  a  guilty  sense  that  she  had 
not  prayed  rightly  began  to  steal  upon  her, 
and  she  tiptoed  back  and  knelt  again,  asking 
only,  this  time,  in  her  perplexity,  that  she 
might  be  given  a  "sign." 

Still,  when  all  was  said,  was  the  matter 
wholly  in  a  mother's  hands?  A  glimpse  of 
little  Mary,  who  had  come  to  fill  Tiny  Ruth's 
place,  tucking  in  sturdy  Donald,  asleep  on 
the  sofa,  reassured  her.  One  has  not  far 
to  go  to  find  the  "sign"  for  which  one  seeks. 
No,  destiny  had  provided  certain  things,  and 
destiny  in  a  measure,  no  doubt,  would  take 
care  of  her  own. 

But  a  single  thought  rankled  in  her  heart  at 
each  recurring  social  function,  and  the  social 
activity  of  the  class  increased  with  each  year 
of  the  four-year  course  which  the  school 
offered. 

[274] 


"HONORABLE    MENTION" 

It  was  so  persistently  the  Red-Headed  Boy 
who  rapped;  it  was  so  evident  that  he  wel- 
comed the  opportunity.  One  liked  him,  too, 
in  spite  of  oneself,  with  his  honest  brown  eyes 
and  quiet,  straightforward  manliness. 

Caroline  would  have  a  vision  of  him  so  long 
as  she  lived,  she  believed,  standing,  shy  but 
determined,  at  the  door,  graduation  night,  his 
hands  filled  with  white  sweet  peas,  and  a 
suggestion  of  a  man's  masterfulness  in  his 
manner. 

She  tried  to  hide  her  relief  afterward  when 
Elizabeth  Anne  came  to  her  with  the  news  that 
John's  family  would  remove  to  a  Western 
State  directly  after  his  graduation,  for  there 
was  a  certain  note  in  the  girlish  voice  that 
touched  her.  How  much  might  the  tie  have 
come  to  mean?  She  gazed  full  into  the  clear 
young  face  and  breathed  more  freely.  After 
all,  Elizabeth  Anne  was  barely  eighteen,  and 
her  heart  was  a  sealed  book. 

But  something  undeniably  pleasant  had 
gone  out  of  her  life,  and  she  went  for  solace 
almost  at  once,  as  she  always  did  in  a  period 
of  loss  or  stress,  to  her  pencil,  sometimes  only 

[275] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

to  make  an  entry  in  the  diary  she  had  begun 
in  a  little,  old  discarded  copy-book,  sometimes 
to  write  a  jingle  or  a  solemn  essay,  or  again  to 
set  down  a  fancy  so  extravagant  it  seemed 
almost  absurd  in  black  and  white. 

It  was  here  that  temptation  fell  upon  her 
once  more,  and  selecting  her  favorite  from  the 
lot,  she  sent  it,  again  quite  secretly,  to  The 
Comet,  a  little  new  paper  that  had  sprung 
into  life  in  a  neighboring  city. 

It  is  a  world  of  miracles,  is  it  not?  At  the 
end  of  two  weeks,  there  came  in  response  to 
the  sender,  a  notably  thin  envelope,  containing 
a  note  of  acceptance  and  a  check  for  three  dol- 
lars, a  sum  with  startlingly  munificent  pro- 
portions in  her  eyes.  It  almost  swept  her  off 
her  feet,  and  as  for  Caroline,  her  cup  was  full. 

What  unbelievable  highways  of  fame  and 
splendor  opened  out  of  that  wee,  humble  path- 
way to  her  mind's  eye!  At  last  they  should 
know  the  sweep  of  bigger  things;  at  last  they 
should  come  into  their  rightful  heritage ;  at  last 
they  should  leave  off  the  eternal  scrimping  and 
seeking,  and  scotch  forever  the  wolf  at  the 
door!  At  last!  At  last! 

[276] 


"HONORABLE    MENTION" 

And  Elizabeth  Anne,  knowing  not  the 
power  and  greatness  of  the  Giant  she  had 
pledged  herself  to  conquer,  set  out  blithely 
—so  blithely,  and  such  a  little  way ! 

"It'll  never  do,"  said  Aunt  Sarah  with  no 
uncertainty  in  one  of  the  crises  promptly 
evolved  by  the  latest  turn  of  affairs.  .  .  . 
"There's  th'  new  Normal,  er  Trainin'  school 
for  teachers,  over  on  th'  South  Side,  about 
ready  for  business,  I  hear;  an'  I'm  needin'  a 
girl  for  dishwashin'  evenin's.  I  don't  see  why 
we  couldn't  make  out  t'  have  you  go." 


[277  ] 


'LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM" 


"LOVE'S   YOUNG  DREAM" 

Caroline  had  endorsed  the  Normal  partly 
as  an  antidote  for  possible  romance,  and  in  this 
she  was  quite  right  in  a  general  way. 

The  Training  School  was  not  a  mausoleum, 
neither  was  it  a  house  of  merriment.  It  was 
a  place  of  monastic  outlook  with  unadorned 
walls,  alabaster  clean,  and  straight,  business- 
like corridors  with  black  rubber  matting. 

There  was  a  sober-minded  faculty  (on  no 
account  referred  to  as  "the  teachers"  here), 
and  a  campus  where  one  felt  sure  that  the 
yard  should  have  been. 

The  whole  was  dedicated  unreservedly  to 
the  Child  and  his  Realm — a  unique  sort  of  child 
that  subsequent  experience  all  but  proved  a 
myth.  Lacking  that  experience,  however,  one, 
of  course,  absorbed  the  glories  of  the  subject, 
and  marvelled  that  his  eyes  had  so  long  been 
closed  to  a  beauty  so  accessible. 

That  is,  the  native  Cull  Prairie  student  mar- 

[281] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

veiled.  There  was  shortly  an  influx  of  city 
young  men  and  women  to  whom  nothing 
seemed  in  the  nature  of  a  marvel.  Cull  Prairie, 
in  her  own  phraseology,  "ran  after"  this  fac- 
tion, feeling  that  the  height  of  things  urban 
had  been  reached  in  the  football  team  which 
now  practiced  Saturdays  in  O'Brien's  pasture, 
though  old  Uncle  Pete  O'Hara,  who  shambled 
across  a  boggy  marsh  and  scaled  two  fences 
to  reach  the  spot,  made  morose  mention  of  the 
need  of  an  assistant  to  the  fool-killer. 

"An'  himsilf  a  foine  an'  able-bodied  mon, 
too,"  he  added  with  puzzled  insistence. 
"Arrah,  'tis  a  fasht  wan,  th'  comin'  gineration, 
wid  th'  divhil  an'  disthruction  aridin'  on  ahid. 
'Tis  the  same  Oi  towld  Maggie  th'  noight, 
through  faith,  an'  she's  not  the  wumman  t'  lave 
a  mon  enjye  himsilf  forseein'  a  bit  o'  trouble." 

Elizabeth  Anne  secretly  studied  the  balloon 
sleeves  and  crimped  and  waved  coiffures  of  the 
new  girls.  Her  own  hair,  only  a  trifle  less 
bleached  looking  now  than  when  as  a  little  girl 
she  had  run  bareheaded  in  the  sun,  and  no 
longer  showing  a  tendency  to  curl,  was  braided 
in  a  single  plait  of  pale,  nondescript  strands, 

[  282  ] 


"LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM" 

and  wound  about  her  crown  like  a  tapering 
coronet. 

Her  dress  of  half-wool  Henrietta-cloth, 
fitted  tightly  to  her  slight  figure,  had  been 
twice  turned  and  dyed  a  deep  and  serviceable 
brown,  which  she  hated.  It  looked  like  a  blot, 
she  thought,  on  the  sea  of  fairer  colors  about  it. 
The  girl  who  sat  opposite  her  in  Assembly 
wore  a  gold  neck  chain  with  a  delicately 
wrought  pendant  that  took  on  an  alluring 
pearly  softness  in  the  light. 

She  was  a  clever  girl,  too,  and  made  a  splen- 
did showing  when  called  upon  to  recite.  Eliz- 
abeth Anne  believed  herself  unjustly  treated  in 
the  distribution  of  things. 

"I  wish  I  could  wear  pearls,"  she  said  that 
night,  glumly,  over  her  dishpan;  "they're 
beautiful!" 

"And  so  are  the  leaves  of  the  trees,"  agreed 
Aunt  Sarah,  pointing  out  a  scarlet  maple  in 
the  woodlot,  "but  folks  don't  feel  called  upon 
t'  deck  themselves  out  in  'em,  because  they're 
t'  be  had  fer  th'  takin'." 

Elizabeth  Anne  wondered.  (There  was 
plenty  of  time  for  solitary  reflections,  just 
[  283  ] 


THE   GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

now,  with  Belle  in  the  factory  and  Minnie  get- 
ting ready  for  a  coming-out  party,  and 
Angelina  again  on  her  circuit  of  relatives.) 

But  she  could  not  forget  the  vision  of  the 
new  girls  as  they  gathered  in  the  walks  and 
chatted  with  an  occasional  trim-looking  youth. 
She  tried  to  imagine  what  they  could  find  to 
talk  about  at  such  length  with  young  men  to 
whom  they  had  seemingly  been  strangers  a 
week  ago.  Their  banter,  when  she  caught 
snatches  of  it,  might  as  well  have  been  couched 
in  a  foreign  tongue  for  all  that  it  meant  to  her. 

The  hitherto  unsuspected  dullness  hurt  even 
worse  than  shabbiness  and  being  out  of  the 
mode. 

It  would  have  been  more  tolerable  per- 
haps— but  this  was  a  secret  grudgingly  shared 
even  with  her  own  heart — had  it  not  been  for 
Laurel,  whom,  unfortunately,  it  was  impos- 
sible for  Caroline  to  foresee. 

In  a  Normal  School  it  is  always  a  Laurel 
or  a  Percival  or  a  Launcelot. 

Elizabeth  Anne  knew  nothing  of  Laurel, 
save  that  he  was  a  nephew  of  Judge  Merritt's 
and  bore  his  surname.  Just  wherein  lay  his 
[284] 


"LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM" 

particular  merit,  it  would  have  been  a  little 
hard  for  a  critical  observer  to  have  said. 

He  was  a  lank  youth  of  twenty,  colorless 
and  expressionless  of  face,  his  features  rudi- 
mentary, his  limbs  long,  his  sandy  hair  thin  and 
parted  in  the  middle;  and  the  Judge  declared 
privately  that  he  was  not  worth  his  salt. 
Young  men  not  worth  their  salt,  in  the  rural 
interpretation  of  that  phrase,  were  commonly 
crowded  into  the  teaching  profession  just  then, 
so  the  Judge,  who,  upon  the  business  failure 
and  subsequent  death  of  Laurel's  father  in  a 
distant  city,  had  offered  the  young  man  Nor- 
mal training,  and  provided  him  with  clothes 
and  lodging,  was  conscious  of  no  wrong. 

And  the  school,  the  student  portion  of  it  at 
any  rate,  basing  its  estimate  on  the  natty  suits, 
low  shoes,  immaculate  hats  and  silken  ties  with 
which  he  had  been  generously  provided,  set  its 
seal  of  approval  upon  him. 

To  Elizabeth  Anne  he  appealed  as  the  Poet, 
not  by  virtue  of  any  rhyming  ability  of  which 
he  was  possessed,  mark  you,  but  simply  be- 
cause, as  she  would  have  said,  he  looked  like  a 

[285] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

Poet,  which,  after  all,  is  a  consideration  not  to 
be  lightly  set  aside. 

Now,  locked  in  the  heart  of  every  girl  of 
eighteen  (all  the  "careers"  in  the  world  affect- 
ing it  not  an  iota)  is  a  decision  concerning  the 
calling  of  the  man  she  will  one  day  marry. 

It  is  a  thing  of  slow  growth,  and  dates  from 
the  Primary  School,  when  she  names  her  but- 
tons in  presumable  order  of  desirability:  "Rich- 
man,  Poorman,  Beggarman,  Thief,  Doctor, 
Lawyer,  Indian  chief."  Elizabeth  Anne  had 
long  and  openly  scorned  Minnie  Bird  for 
sordidly  rejoicing  when  "Richman"  had  fallen 
to  her  portion,  and  being  herself  dissatisfied 
with  the  list  in  general  had  set  it  aside,  and 
settled  firmly,  after  mature  reflection,  upon 
a  Poet. 

To  be  sure,  she  was  somewhat  vague  in  rela- 
tion to  the  term,  but  it  still  afforded,  for  all 
that,  a  splendid  field  for  day  dreams  in  the 
intervals  of  study,  when  her  gaze  strayed  from 
"What  the  Child  Must  Know"  to  the  nodding 
clumps  of  golden-glow  at  the  outer  confines 
of  the  campus. 

She  did  not  know  how  these  dreams  became 

[286] 


"LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM" 

confused  with  the  name  of  Laurel  Merritt,  and 
she  dropped  her  head,  and  bit  her  lip  sharply, 
when  she  first  became  conscious  that  they  had, 
in  some  way,  come  to  include  him. 

But  the  thought  was  not  unpleasant,  and 
since  it  intruded  itself  again  and  again,  she  felt 
powerless  and  half  unwilling  to  banish  it. 

Presently,  gaining  courage,  she  closed  the 
heavy,  red  "Elements  of  Pedagogy"  on  her 
lap,  and  lifting  her  eyes  gazed  across  the  room 
to  where  he  was  sitting.  It  appeared  that  he, 
too,  was  staring  out  of  the  window.  She 
could  see  the  sharp  curve  of  his  lean  jaw  «nd 
the  absent  motion  of  his  idle  fingers  on  the 
desk. 

Could  it  be  that  his  thoughts  were  straying 
even  as  her's — that  he  too  was  thinking 
perhaps  of — ? 

She  checked  the  thought  as  absurd,  and  it 
was  then  she  longed,  with  an  intensity  almost 
painful,  to  be  pretty. 

Did  any  woman  with  freckles  and  a  turn-up 
nose  ever  achieve  the  real  desire  of  her  life,  or 
was  she  doomed  forever  to  struggle  along  un- 
der a  weak  and  miserable  makeshift?  The 

[287] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

question  appealed  to  her  as  infinitely  more 
important  than  the  indefinite  concerns  of  the 
still  more  indefinite  child. 

It  thrust  itself  for  consideration  between  the 
prosy  pages  of  the  clumsy  red  book  when  she 
conscientiously  reopened  it.  It  followed  her 
to  classroom,  where  a  weekly  test  was  the 
order  of  the  day. 

It  rose  tantalizingly  on  the  page  before  her 
while  she  set  down  industriously  and  mechani- 
cally the  pedagogical  observations  of  the  red- 
backed  authority,  for  her  a  mere  memory  exer- 
cise, and,  since  her  memory  happened  to  be  an 
excellent  one,  as  easy  as  the  proverbial  falling 
off  a  log. 

She  was  finishing  the  last  dull  paragraph 
when  she  felt  a  slight  tug  at  her  sleeve,  and 
half  turning  looked — could  it  possibly  be  true? 
— into  the  disturbed  eyes  of — Laurel  Merritt. 
He  silently  lifted  his  paper  as  she  turned,  but 
before  her  glance  fell  upon  the  still  blank  sur- 
face she  seemed  to  know  instinctively  that  he 
was  entirely  at  sea. 

It  was  a  dreadful  moment,  but  a  brief  one, 
[288] 


"LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM" 

To  what   depths  will  not  even   a  new-born 
passion  descend? 

Elizabeth  Anne,  who  had  never  "cheated" 
in  examination  in  her  life,  and  who  sincerely 
believed  that  she  scorned  such  a  proceeding 
as  mean  and  stupid — Elizabeth  Anne,  whose 
soul,  always  a  timid  one,  trembled  at  the  con- 
sequences of  such  a  lapse  in  morals,  not  to  men- 
tion the  possibility  of  detection,  could  it  be  she 
who,  under  cover  of  one  thin  hand,  whispered 
a  cue  feverishly  and  insistently?  With  great 
relief  she  heard  the  scratching  of  the  pen 
behind  her. 

The  words,  then,  had  carried.  But  the  tug 
was  repeated  after  a  moment,  several  times  in 
fact,  and  she  found  herself  in  a  state  of  grow- 
ing excitement,  answering  questions  and  recit- 
ing definitions  in  a  way  that  in  a  cooler  moment 
she  would  have  unhesitatingly  labeled  shame- 
less. 

However,  Laurel  Merritt  presented  a  rea- 
sonably good  paper  in  Pedagogy  at  this  time, 
by  reason  of  the  several  little  jogs  given  his 
uncertain  memory,  and  the  Judge  did  not  wash 
his  hands  of  him  as  he  had  threatened  he  would 

[289] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

do  in  case  of  a  poor  showing.  To  do  him  jus- 
tice, he  was  grateful  to  his  lately  discovered 
ally.  He  began  to  speak  in  a  very  friendly 
way  to  her,  whenever  their  paths  crossed, 
though  she  was  "not  in  his  set,"  as  he  would 
have  said. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  putting  the  memory  of  the 
means  by  which  their  acquaintance  had  been 
accomplished,  resolutely  behind  her,  was 
grateful  in  her  turn. 

The  friendship  did  not  ripen  very  fast,  but 
she  would  not  have  hastened  it  in  any  way  any 
more  than  she  would  have  thrust  her  fingers 
into  a  delicate  white  opening  bud.  She  went 
her  way  to  and  from  school  thoughtfully  and 
dreamily  now,  and  reread  several  novels  of 
which  she  was  very  fond,  with  a  new  sort  of 
personal  interest. 

Caroline  took  note  of  her  growing  womanli- 
ness, and  attributed  it  to  every  cause  but  the 
true  one,  for  as  yet  no  word  of  Laurel  had 
passed  between  them. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  so  far  from  being  secretive, 
would  have  said  there  was  nothing  to  tell,  but 
she  knew  that  in  her  heart  was  a  story,  sweet  if 

[  290] 


"LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM" 

unworded.  It  betrayed  itself  in  her  voice  if 
he  spoke  to  her  unexpectedly,  in  her  changing 
color  and  swiftly  lowered  lashes  if  he  chanced 
to  look  her  way,  in  so  many  little  ways  indeed 
that  even  he,  with  all  his  dull  self-absorption, 
began  to  be  aware  of  a  strange  adoration 
mysteriously  centering  about  him. 

The  discovery  could  hardly  be  said  to  have 
surprised  him,  or  even  to  have  moved  him  a 
jot  out  of  the  self -rut  in  which  he  had  placidly 
existed  his  full  score  of  years. 

It  was  rather  opportune,  he  reflected,  com- 

>  ing  to  his  notice  on  the  eve  of  a  "final"  in  a 

subject  in  which  he  felt  himself  to  be  most 

deficient.    He  speculated  idly  on  whether  she 

might  prove  of  service  to  him  again. 

He  was  surely  not  averse  under  the  circum- 
stances to  encouraging  any  sentiment  she 
might  entertain  for  him,  and  his  languid  lidded 
eyes  brightened  with  an  idea  as  he  reached  for 
his  pen  and  a  sheet  of  tinted  note-paper. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  returning  some  time  later 
from  class,  discovered  the  blue-hued  message 
in  her  empty  ink-well,  and  her  small  fingers 
trembled  so  that  she  extricated  it  with  drffi- 

[291] 


culty,  and  her  heart  beat  thickly  in  her  throat 
at  the  sight  of  the  handwriting,  unmistakably 
his  own. 

"To  one  which  I  love,  and  love  dearly,"  he 
began  (for  syntax  was  never  his  strong 
point).  The  reader  paused  here  and  dwelt 
again  upon  each  precious  word,  conflicting 
emotions  swelling  in  her  breast. 

Then,  being  the  daughter  of  a  philosopher, 
she  took  her  newest  eraser,  and  carefully  effac- 
ing the  offending  pronoun,  substituted  the  cor- 
rect one  in  close  imitation  of  his  flourish,  that 
this  cherished  missive,  when  reread  in  the  days 
to  come,  might  give  her  only  pleasure. 

"I  have  read  your  secret  in  your  eyes,"  he 
went  on  in  the  fashion  of  a  love  story  he  had 
unearthed  from  the  Judge's  shelves,  "and  I 
am  more  than  happy,  for  my  heart  has  been 
yours  from  our  first  meeting.  Let  me  know 
by  some  token  how  much  you  care.  ...  I 
will  call  tonight,  dear,  unless  you  say  it  is 
inconvenient.  L.  H.  M." 

"Laurel  Herbert  Merritt" — Elizabeth  Anne 
whispered  the  name  for  which  the  barely  leg- 

[292] 


"LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM" 

ible  letters  of  the  signature  stood,  and  as  a 
"token"  tucked  the  paper  shyly  in  her  bosom. 

Outside,  a  group  of  children  from  the  Model 
Department  joined  her.  She  wanted  to  take 
their  hands  and  skip  along  gaily,  as  they  did. 
She  had  sometimes  taken  advantage  of  her 
small  stature  to  join  them  in  their  play.  But 
a  strong  new  sense  of  dignity  prevented  her. 

She  had  come  in  a  heart-beat  out  of  the 
House  of  her  Little  Girlhood,  with  the  key 
still  warm  against  her  breast,  and  delightful 
as  she  found  the  Dwelling  of  her  Womanhood, 
she  would  not  demean  it  with  frivolous  be- 
haviour. She  bent  down  soberly  and  kissed* 
each  round,  surprised  face  as  their  ways  parted 
and  she  turned  into  the  homeward  road. 

The  white  dust  and  the  pink  asters,  the 
overhanging  sumacs,  and  the  frisking  gophers 
in  the  culverts,  all  appealed  to  her  now  as  part 
of  a  picture  she  had  never  before  seen. 

On  the  home  porch  the  vines  hung  thick  and 
dusty,  and  two  of  the  four  household  cats, 
mothers  to  flourishing  families  of  kittens, 
basked  serenely  on  the  lowest  step.  (David 
had  made  sundry  threats  concerning  the  kit- 

[293] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

tens,  but  they  still  dozed  peacefully  in  their 
haymow  quarters.) 

From  the  kitchen  chimney  there  was  a  thin 
cloud  of  bluish  smoke  rising  slowly  to  meet  the 
bluer  autumn  haze  and  already  the  appetizing 
supper  odor  of  coffee  and  fried  potatoes  filled 
the  air. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  who,  up  to  this  moment,  had 
accepted  it  all,  for  all  its  limitations,  as  the  best 
place  in  the  world,  began  to  wonder  what 
Laurel  might  think  of  the  basking  cats  and  the 
patched  porch  and  the  dingy  sitting-room  car- 
pet. The  thought  held  her  silent  and  distrait 
during  the  usually  merry  supper  hour,  and  beat 
in  a  warm  surge  at  her  temples  when,  the  last 
supper  cup  washed  and  hung  in  its  place,  she 
heard  him  at  the  door,  and  went  to  admit  him. 

He  came  in  with  some  hesitation,  born 
largely  of  condescension,  and  the  introductions 
having  been  accomplished,  sat  down  very  near 
the  door  and  crossed  his  knees,  having  first 
deposited  his  neat  sailor  hat  on  the  head  of  the 
sofa  with  an  air  of  careless  ease. 

The  household  took  a  moment  to  adjust 
itself  and  rise  to  the  occasion. 

[  294  ] 


"LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM" 

Then  someone  remarked  politely  concerning 
the  dry  weather — a  remark  that  was  answered 
in  kind  and  enlarged  upon  until  it  embraced 
every  topic  by  any  possibility  related  to  it;  the 
crops,  the  dust,  an  undue  supply  of  potato 
beetles,  a  prospective  Sunday-school  picnic. 

Elizabeth  Anne,  fearful  lest  the  supply 
might  run  out  altogether,  murmured  an  excuse 
and  went  to  light  the  lamp  in  the  bare  little 
parlor.  During  her  absence,  prolonged  by 
shyness,  Laurel  offered  some  opinions  of  the 
political  situation  and  the  prospects  for  the 
workingman  that  made  David  ache,  and  return 
grimly  to  his  newspaper. 

Caroline  having  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
daughter's  unguarded  face  as  she  passed  her 
in  the  doorway,  found  herself  bereft  of  every- 
thing in  the  way  of  speech  save  a  few  inanities 
over  which  she  bungled  with  a  conversational 
clumsiness  ordinarily  quite  foreign  to  her. 

In  the  stiff  silences,  Aunt  Sarah,  who  had 
come  to  spend  the  evening,  rocked  shortly  and 
clicked  her  knitting  needles  vindictively. 

Take  it  altogether,  the  call  was  an  awk- 
ward one,  and  relief  was  the  predominating 

[295] 


THE,  GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

expression  in  several  faces  when  the  door 
finally  closed  upon  the  bowing  Laurel,  who 
departed  with  Elizabeth  Anne's  lecture  note- 
book under  one  arm. 

But  if  the  silence  had  been  stiff  before  it 
was  stiffer  than  ever  now. 

"I— I  hope  you  like  him,"  ventured  a  diffi- 
dent girlish  voice  at  last,  tremulously. 

Still  silence. 

"He  loves  me,"  said  Elizabeth  Anne,  stand- 
ing up  very  straight  and  launching  her  bolt 
with  the  least  possible  ceremony — "me  out  of 
all  those  prettier  girls !"  She  choked  over  her 
miracle — this  call  of  the  Shadow  Prince  grown 
real,  and  brooking  no  denial  for  any  reason. 
It  was  as  if  she  told  them  of  some  beauteous 
thing  before  which  their  eyes  were  holden. 
"And  I — I  return  the  feeling,"  proudly.  "I 
didn't  want  to  worry  you.  I've  told  you  almost 
as  soon  as  I  knew  it  myself." 

"He — pshaw!"  said  David,  tugging  at  his 
beard. 

"Oh,"  said  Caroline  in  a  little  groan  she 
could  not  help.  Her  knees  felt  like  water 
under  her,  and  her  voice  was  equally  untrusty. 

[296] 


"LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM" 

Robert,  who  had  been  steadily  and  silently 
whittling  a  stick,  shut  his  knife  with  a  snap,  and 
backed  warily  into  the  kitchen,  and  Little  Mary 
in  the  bedroom  cried  out  lustily  in  her  sleep. 

"I  once  loved  a  man  with  a  wart  on  his 
nose,"  said  Aunt  Sarah  whimsically  when  the 
cry  had  been  lulled,  "so  I  s'pose  I'm  elected  t' 
keep  still.  But  this  one's  awful  rare  done, 
Betsy,  awful  rare,  and  I'm  misdoubtin'  seri- 
ously he'll  ever  cook  through." 

Elizabeth  Anne  afterward  shed  a  few  tears 
at  the  recollection  of  these  things,  sitting 
cross-legged  on  her  own  bed  in  the  candle  light, 
thereby  adding  to  the  distress  of  Caroline,  who 
was  watching  her  unobserved  from  the  shadows 
of  the  doorway. 

"She  really  cares,  I'm  afraid,"  she  moaned 
to  herself,  stealing  away,  when  she  could  stand 
it  no  longer,  to  her  own  bed.  "She  really  cares, 
David,"  she  repeated  dully.  "There  seemed 
to  be  a  positive  understanding  between  them. 
Dear,  did  you  notice  her  eyes?" 

"He's  a  pup,"  growled  David,  savagely  and 
unexpectedly,  banging  the  shutters,  which 
creaked  sadly  on  their  hinges,  "a  regular— 

[297] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

He  had  been  about  to  repeat  the  epithet, 
when  a  memory  still  keen  and  painful  caught 
him  up  short.  "But  then  your  mother  once 
said — "  be  broke  off  instead,  sheepishly. 

"Don't,"  said  Caroline,  holding  out  her 
hand.  "Whatever  happens  we  must  bear  it 
together.  You  know,  dear,"  quiver ingly,  "I 
could  bear  anything  that  way." 

And  so  the  days  of  the  Normal  course  sped 
on,  and  Elizabeth  Anne,  grown  wistful  and 
sedate,  dreamed  her  dreams  at  closer  range, 
sometimes  with  a  flower  from  the  Judge's  gar- 
den pressed  against  her  cheek,  sometimes  with 
a  bit  of  paper  bearing  a  few  scribbled  words. 

The  friendship,  slow  in  its  inception,  now 
progressed  steadily.  The  Langdon  family 
sitting-room  gradually  accustomed  itself,  to  a 
weekly  visit  from  Laurel,  and  the  neighbor- 
hood, never  slow  to  gather  an  inference,  began 
to  betray  a  rising  interest  in  the  matter. 

"My,  but  ain't  he  th'  dude?"  shrilled 
Grandma  Prouty,  thrusting  out  a  suggestive 
elbow  with  undiminished  dexterity.  "Anybudy 
that  'u'd  take  two  looks  at  them  thar  purple 

[298] 


"LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM" 

ties  'n'd  that  thar  carbuncle  stick-pin,  'u'd 
have  'n  awful  greedy  eye!" 

"I  dremp  o'  beaux  like  him  when  I  wuz 
young,"  wheezingly  enthused  Miss  Mittie  in 
her  turn,  "but  somehow  they  didn't  'pear  t' 
fall  inta  my  lot.  Sometimes  I  feel  anyway 
like  m'  hull  life  hain't  been  nothin'  but  a  barr'n 
waste,  but  I  expect  it'll  make  me  all  th'  more 
anxious  t'  say:  'Oh  death,  where  is  thy  sting?' ' 

"Ye'd  better  not  go  temp  tin'  Providence 
with  none  o'  that  stingin'  talk,  Mitt  Peeler," 
hotly  enjoined  Grandma  Prouty,  resenting  this 
incursion  on  her  own  domain,  "er  ye  may  git 
tuk  at  yer  word  when  ye  ain't  lookin'  fer  it." 

"My  dear  girl,"  wrote  Grandmother  Strat- 
man,  in  the  first  letter  she  had  ever  penned  to 
her  grand-daughter,  "is  it  true  that  you  are 
engaged  to  be  married  to  Mr.  Laurel  Merritt? 
A  young  lady  who  lives  next  door  to  me,  and 
attends  the  Training  School  in  your  town,  tells 
me  that  she  has  it  on  good  authority,  though 
your  mother  seems  strangely  reticent  on  the 
subject.  ...  I  wish  that  you  could  ar- 
range to  spend  a  week-end  with  me  in  the  near 
future.  The  big  house  seems  so  lonely  with 

[299] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

Ellen  at  the  Settlement,  and  Virginia  in  Japan 
at  her  missionary  labors.  In  some  ways  my 
girls,  dear  as  they  are  to  me,  have  proven  a 
disappointment.  .  .  .  (Here,  out  of  the 
bag  stepped  the  most  serene  and  unconscious 
of  cats.)  Dear  girl,  if  it  be  true,  I  am  sure 
you  are  to  be  congratulated.  I  am  sorry  that  I 
do  not  know  Mr.  Laurel  personally ;  but  I  un- 
derstand he  is  to  be  his  uncle's  heir,  the  Judge 
having  no  children  of  his  own,  and  the  Mer- 
ritts  I  know  are  very  comfortably  situated 
indeed." 

Poor  Grandmother  Stratman  at  almost 
seventy ! 

Elizabeth  Anne,  in  the  first  full  sweep  of 
youth,  put  from  her  the  more  practical  con- 
siderations, and  scrip turally  "held  fast  to  that 
which  was  good." 

She  wanted  to  hold  fast  to  the  days  of  the 
Normal  course  which  were  slipping  away  with 
a  swiftness  almost  alarming.  In  two  weeks 
more,  Laurel,  who  had  managed  at  last  to 
weather  the  Normal  tide,  would  have  his 
position. 

It  would  take  him  to  a  new  and  distant  town 

[300] 


"LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM" 

where  teachers  were  scarce,  but  it  would  open 
great  possibilities,  he  said — "possibilities  for 
us  both,"  he  added  significantly,  for  he  had 
come  to  enjoy  his  power  over  her,  and  it  gave 
him  an  agreeable  sense  of  masculine  superior- 
ity to  see  how  confidently  she  waited  upon  his 
words. 

Most  assuredly  he  would  write — every  day 
if  she  wished,  a  promise  which  he  kept  for  a 
time,  when  there  seemed  so  much  to  tell  about 
his  generous  salary  and  the  place  of  impor- 
tance he  had  assumed  both  in  the  new  town  and 
the  school. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Elizabeth  Anne  that  these 
letters  were  self-centered,  much  less  that  they 
were  not  exactly  true  as  to  detail.  She  herself 
had  a  position — a  more  insignificant  one  than 
she  had  expected — on  the  outskirts  of  Cull 
Prairie,  affording  her  a  monthly  stipend  of 
thirty-five  dollars.  She  wrote  humbly  in  re- 
turn, and  hoped  that  the  people  of  the  new 
town  appreciated  their  privileges. 

Meanwhile,  she  was  not  unhappy  in  her 
work,  and  always  within  easy  access,  was  a  re- 
cent letter  in  which  he  said  that  soon,  very 

[801] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

soon,  he  would  have  something  of  importance 
to  tell  her  in  person. 

She  would  not  let  herself  think  of  it  any 
more  definitely  than  that,  but  the  timidest 
meanderings  of  her  mind  in  this  direction  were 
like  warming  touches  from  the  very  hands  of 
Joy.  Once,  she  dreamed  of  his  coming,  and  the 
dream  was  so  real  that  she  awaited  him  next 
day  as  if  she  had  had  an  actual  message. 

It  was  a  bracing  day  of  late  summer  that 
seemed  to  promise  everything.  She  trod  the 
aisles  with  prim  little  teacherish  steps,  and 
tried  not  to  show  the  absurd  delight  that  cried 
out  to  sing  in  her  every  move.  A  tot  from  the 
Primer  class  lifted  her  hand  and  kissed  it  as 
she  passed  by. 

The  touch  of  the  babyish  lips  made  her  heart 
swell  with  the  deep,  sweet  meanings  of  life — 
the  possible  call,  waking  newly  in  her,  to  a  dim, 
transcending  motherhood.  Beside  it,  all  other 
things  in  life  seemed  suddenly  as  a  thin  vapor. 

As  the  day  waned,  her  eyes  strayed  oftener 
to  the  lonely  stretch  of  white  road,  fruitlessly. 
It  was  only  a  foolish  fancy,  she  reassured  her- 
[  302  ] 


"LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM" 

self  later,  locking  the  door  on  the  heels  of  the 
last  small  hanger-on  and  dragging  her  feet  a 
little  wearily  through  the  thick,  faded  grass. 

But  she  would  stop  at  the  post-office  and — 
yes,  the  letter  at  least  was  there.  She  saw  it 
in  its  place  in  the  box  and  broke  the  seal  almost 
at  once,  straying  with  her  message  out  of  the 
dingy  little  place  into  the  more  fitting 
sunlight. 

And  then — ah,  then  the  sunlight  of  that  day 
and  many  a  day  to  come  went  out  swiftly  for 
Elizabeth  Anne.  The  words  had  been  care- 
fully chosen  for  once,  but  they  hurt  as  she 
could  never  have  dreamed  mere  words  had 
power  to  hurt. 

"It  is  all  over  between  us,"  he  wrote  at  the 
last.  "You  are  too  sensible  a  girl,  I  know,  to 
grieve  for  one  who  has  ceased  to  love  you.  The 
fact  is,  there  is  someone  else.  .  .  .  Do  not 
write.  I  am  leaving  here  tomorrow." 

Poor  Elizabeth  Anne,  who  could  not  read 
between  the  lines  that  he  had  failed  in  his 
vaunted  place  and  was  returning  to  the  home  of 
his  mother  to  be  a  further  problem  there, 

[303] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

One's  grief  is  none  the  less  real  because  it 
is  unseeing  and  baseless  and  imaginary.  She 
only  knew  that  she  must  get  home  somehow 
and  face  its  light-hearted  chatter  now  and 
always  as  best  she  could. 

Somewhere,  she  was  thinking  in  a  dull  under- 
current, she  had  seen  the  word  "blighted"  in  a 
magazine  story  which  matched  her  experience. 
So  this  was  what  it  meant  to  be  "blighted!" 

The  blight  was  a  cold  and  gripping  thing. 
It  chilled  and  changed  one  hopelessly,  and — 
she  reached  blindly  for  the  door  and  would 
have  escaped  to  her  own  room,  but  the  next 
moment  Caroline's  arms  were  around  her,  and 
her  warm  plump  hands  were  chafing  the  numb 
girlish  ones,  and  her  tears  were  mingling  with 
Elizabeth  Anne's,  though  she  asked  never  a 
word. 

It  soothed  the  sting,  but  it  could  not  take 
away  the  hurt. 

Dear  Elizabeth  Anne!  Dear  "blighted" 
Elizabeth  Annes  the  wide  world  over!  How 
can  you  know  that  when  a  few  short  years  have 
been  added  to  your  life-sum —  oh,  such  a  paltry 
few — the  healing  balm  of  clearer  sight  will  be 

[304] 


"LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM" 

laid  upon  your  poor  blind  eyes,  and  you  will 
get  down  on  your  humble  knees,  and  thank 
God  from  the  very  depths  of  your  heart  that 
he  saw  fit  to  "blight"  you! 


[805] 


THE  MOUNT  OF  VISION 


XIX 

THE  MOUNT  OF  VISION 

At  twenty-two  the  world  turns  'round  for 
us.  We  follow  it  with  fascinated  eyes,  and 
demand  of  it  a  reason  for  our  place  in  the 
scheme  of  the  universe.  The  question  is  a  sort 
of  climax  in  the  bristling  array  of  "whys"  with 
which  we  have  so  long  grappled. 

Elizabeth  Anne  was  brewing  a  solitary  cup 
of  tea  over  the  battered  little  oil  stove  beside 
her  desk  when  the  weightiest  "why"  assailed 
her,  and  carried  away  by  its  immensity,  she  set 
down  her  teacup  and  went  over  to  the  window, 
leaning  her  arms  dreamily  across  the  sill. 

There  was  a  distant  hill  just  visible  from 
this  point  of  vision,  and  over  it,  etched  cloud- 
fashion,  she  had  come  to  fancy  she  could  see 
the  scenes  of  her  life  projected  as  on  a  great 
dim  screen — dull  scenes  she  named  them,  in 
her  pent-up  youthfulness,  of  the  duller  days, 
slipping  by,  a  gray-hooded  procession,  each  so 
much  like  its  predecessor  as  to  give  her  a  kin- 

[309] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

dred  feeling  with  the  little  smooth-haired, 
bright-eyed  mouse  in  the  schoolroom  trap,  a 
mouse  she  would  later  carry,  very  much  alive, 
to  the  edge  of  the  adjacent  wood,  from  whence 
he  would  promptly  return,  to  be  caught  again 
with  unfailing  regularity,  and  wax  fat  on  the 
baiting  cheese. 

Another  school  year  had  passed  over  her 
head  in  the  selfsame  spot,  and  the  time  had 
rolled  on  to  June,  a  drizzling,  backward  June 
that  had  at  last  wearied  itself  with  its  Niobe- 
like  insistence  and  was  now  shining  out  with 
hysterical  radiance  on  the  over-wet  and  faintly 
yellowed  blades  of  corn  that  reached  out  feebly 
for  it.  What  a  multitude  of  wants  the  earth 
supplied ! 

Surely  the  concerns  of  Providence  were 
many.  But  in  all  this  stress  individual  lives 
were  reckoned  with. 

Had  she  not  had  her  own  plan  of  life  brushed 
aside,  so  to  speak?  And  the  ends  of  Providence 
were  beneficent.  What  then  was  the  manifest 
purpose  in  this,  what  indeed — her  thought  was 
illumed — save  that  greater  things  had  been 
reserved  for  her. 

[310] 


THE    MOUNT    OF    VISION 

At  twenty-two  we  say  greater — not  better 
— and  we  mean  achievement  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world.  And  then  Ambition  looks  us  in  the 
face  for  the  first  time  squarely  and  we  look 
back  for  a  moment  with  a  degree  of  boldness 
we  know  vaguely  we  shall  never  again  be  able 
to  muster. 

Elizabeth  Anne's  ambition  was  like  a  sap- 
ling of  uncertain  inclination  that  had  been  so 
long  coaxed  in  a  single  direction  that  a  final 
response  was  inevitable.  She  would  wrestle 
with  her  Giant,  wrestle  fearlessly  and  untir- 
ingly, yes,  and  conquer  him  too,  in  the  end. 
But  she  trembled  now  with  a  troubled  sense 
of  the  beginning  of  the  fray — that,  and  the 
memory  of  another  course.  Ambition  had 
opened  for  her  wayfaring  as  a  sort  of  easy 
alternative.  For  Ambition,  abetted  by  Fate, 
had  pointed  with  unromantic  forefinger  to 
Mr.  Richard  Kail,  the  middle-aged  and  pros- 
perous and  still  unwed  Mr.  R.  S.  Kail  of  the 
Sun  and  the  Mortgage  and  sundry  other 
equally  important  things. 

It  was  a  lately  buried  chapter  in  her  life, 
when  her  own  thoughts  had  gone  masquerading 

[311] 


THE   GENIUS    OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

in  a  guise  she  did  not  know,  and  she  wanted 
never  to  revert  to  it;  but  once,  once  she  had 
promised — almost. 

Well,  little  Mary  had  been  ill,  and  her 
ringed,  hungry  eyes  had  been  so  like  Tiny 
Ruth's  looking  back  from  the  Far  Country, 
and  there  was  a  new  Baby  Langdon  crying  to 
be  fed,  and — but  why  detail  excuses  she  felt 
might  be  multiplied  almost  indefinitely? 
Enough  that  for  once  at  least  she  had  known 
the  thrill  of  the  conqueror. 

Enough  that  there  was  still  left  to  her,  at 
her  very  elbow,  waiting  for  fresh  overtures — 
her  Giant.  With  what  new  means  should  she 
seek  to  begin  operations  ? 

Her  own  Romance?  She  hated  a  sniveling 
tale.  .  .  .  Minnie  Bird's  story?  Why 
not?  Viewed  from  the  outside,  it  glittered  like 
the  most  varnished  fairy  lore.  Minnie  Bird 
had  been  married  a  year  ago  this  particular 
day  to  a  young  man  from  the  nearest  large 
city,  a  gay  young  man,  who,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
countryside,  had  appeared  as  little  short  of  an 
Adonis. 

There  had  been  an  elaborately  planned  wed- 

[312] 


THE    MOUNT    OF    VISION 

ding  service  and  a  no  less  elaborate  wedding 
breakfast  of  many  covers,  and  when  it  was  all 
over,  Angelina,  tired,  large-eyed,  wretchedly- 
clad  Angelina,  who  still  won  from  life  only  the 
portion  of  labor,  had  appeared  upon  the  scene 
to  help  "Aunt  Bird,"  as  she  said,  with  the 
heavier  work,  "so  long  as  she  should  be 
wanted." 

Elizabeth  Anne  had  viewed  only  the  cere- 
mony in  the  little  church  in  company  with  sev- 
eral other  elbowed  North  Siders,  but  she  had 
let  her  imagination  run  riot  over  the  rest,  while 
she  cried  in  the  churchyard  with  the  other  girls, 
any  one  of  whom  would  have  found  it  hard  to 
give  a  reason  for  her  tears,  since  one  and  all  be- 
lieved from  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  that  the 
doors  of  the  innermost  paradise  had  swung 
ajar  for  the  satin-robed  Minnie  with  her  bridal 
bouquet  of  snowy  lilies  of  the  valley. 

Minnie  Bird  Hemmingway  was  the  dignified 
way  in  which  the  town  newspaper  made  men- 
tion of  her  now,  when  the  occasion  arose.  Eliza- 
beth Anne  appreciated,  but  waived  it.  "Des- 
demona"  was  the  name  fixed  upon  by  her  for 
her  story  heroine,  this  appellation  having 

[313] 


GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE" 

taken  the  place  of  "Gene vie ve"  in  her  affec- 
tions. "The  Joy  of  Desdemona,"  how  it 
thrilled  her  and  clung  to  her  until  by  proxy  it 
became  a  part  of  her  own ! 

Luckily,  vacation  time  was  at  hand,  supply- 
ing her  with  unwonted  leisure,  and  enabling 
her  to  steal  away  to  the  attic  with  her  project. 

The  attic,  as  further  good  fortune  would 
have  it,  was  quite  bearable  as  to  temperature, 
being  supplied  with  no  less  than  two  windows, 
before  which  Caroline  had  put  up  neat  white 
muslin  shades.  Its  chief  furnishings  consisted 
of  four  backless  chairs,  a  wrecked  sofa,  a  more 
sorely  wrecked  rocker  and  an  overturned  car- 
pet-rag box  which  did  duty  as  a  desk.  What 
more  could  the  god  of  inspiration  ask  or 
demand? 

Elizabeth  Anne,  formulating  her  plot, 
stumbled  about  among  these  things  as  one  who 
could  not  see.  Now  and  then,  in  a  radiant 
burst  of  fancy,  she  believed  she  had  almost  laid 
hands  on  the  poor  little  white-faced,  elusive 
Genius  she  pictured  herself  pursuing  from 
corner  to  corner  in  a  vain  attempt  to  crowd 
into  the  struggle.  She  smiled  absently  if  you 

[314] 


THE    MOUNT    OF    VISION 

accosted  her,  and  answered  shortly  and  mum- 
blingly.  She  lost  sight  of  daily  small  happen- 
ings, and  was  obliged  to  inquire  the  day  of 
the  week. 

She  mistook  small  Mary's  rag  doll  for  a 
cushion,  and  tucked  it  abstractedly  at  her  back, 
until  the  piercing  wails  of  the  young  mother 
finally  broke  upon  her  preoccupied  conscious- 
ness. 

For  "one  wants  concentration  to  write  a  Ro- 
mance," as  the  writer  explained  in  desperation 
to  Caroline,  who  came  to  investigate  the  cause 
of  the  disturbance.  And  Caroline  was  well 
content — wistful  Caroline  with  the  limpid  blue 
eyes  and  the  insatiate  hope  in  her  breast. 

Sometimes,  thereafter,  she  came  to  the  at- 
tic room  softly  with  a  few  strawberries  ar- 
ranged daintily  on  a  saucer,  and  if  the  short 
pencil  could  be  seen  bobbing  over  a  page  busily, 
she  put  them  in  reach  without  a  word,  and 
creaked  slowly  back  down  the  narrow  stairs. 

She  sang  afterward,  keeping  time  to  the 
steady  jog  of  the  wooden  cradle  to  which  the 
last  baby  had  been  promoted,  and  Elizabeth 
Anne,  reaching  for  her  berries,  and  catching  a 

[315] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

snatch  of  the  air,  made  a  deep  resolve  that  some 
day  she  would  justify  the  song. 

Some  day  she  would  bring  into  the  life  of 
the  singer  comforts — even  luxuries  perhaps — 
which  she  could  not  now  with  her  pittance. 
Some  day!  Set  it  down  in  gold  letters  in  the 
book  of  Twenty- two! 

"The  Joy  of  Desdemona"  was  half  com- 
pleted when  there  arose  an  opportunity  to  add 
to  it  the  charm  of  reality  not  to  be  carelessly 
unconsidered.  The  morning  mail  brought  a 
letter  from  Minnie,  asking,  nay  demanding,  a 
visit  from  her  old  school  friend. 

Elizabeth  Anne  considered  it  with  her  purse 
in  her  lap,  and  a  vision  of  another  world,  a  city 
world  of  glitter  and  gaiety  whose  temptings 
forth  she  had  long  relegated  perforce  to  the 
back  of  her  brain,  beckoning  to  her  in  renewed 
hope  over  the  top  of  the  pages. 

Then,  resolution  seated  high  on  her  brow, 
she  gathered  together  her  closely  written 
sheets  for  safe  keeping,  blackened  her  shoes 
to  their  limit  of  lustre,  mended  her  gloves  and 
the  little  lace  blouse  that  was  considered 
"quite  dressy"  in  Cull  Prairie,  fastened  the 

[316] 


THE    MOUNT    OF    VISION 

prim  gray  and  white  wing  (that  always 
wanted  fastening)  more  securely  to  her  hat, 
and  in  final  proof  of  her  intention,  packed  a 
small  hand  satchel. 

It  was  a  two  hours'  journey  to  the  place  of 
her  destination,  and  all  the  way  there  she  con- 
gratulated herself  that  a  certain  little  rainy  day 
fund  from  the  depths  of  her  bureau  drawer 
had  been  magicked  at  the  eleventh  hour  into  a 
blue  striped  parasol  as  a  final  touch  to  her 
adorning. 

"The  very  latest  thing,"  the  saleswoman  at 
the  Cull  Prairie  Emporium  had  assured  her. 
There  was  a  world  of  comfort  in  the  phrase. 

"The  very  latest  thing,"  the  wheels  seemed 
to  chug  and  the  creak  of  the  ventilators  to  en- 
courage as  she  leaned  forward  nervously  and 
smoothed  her  hair  while  the  train  drew  up  at 
the  long  station.  Desdemona  would  know, 
Desdemona  would  approve,  lucky  Desdemona 
of  the  world  of  sparkle ! 

A  final  look  around,  a  final  tender  brushing 
of  the  consoling  "latest  thing,"  and  Minnie's 
hazel  eyes  had  met  hers  in  the  crowd,  and  swept 

[817] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH   ANNE 

her  with  a  single  oblique  glance  faintly  discon- 
certing for  all  its  unquestioned  friendliness. 

Desdemona,  ah,  Desdemona  to  be  sure,  but 
how,  at  the  same  time,  really  Minnie — Minnie 
after  one  year — this  voluptuous  woman  waft- 
ing oriental  perfume  and  resembling  in  the 
ultra  vividness  of  her  complexion  and  raiment 
an  artificial  Killarney  rose? 

Bewildered,  she  let  herself  be  drawn  aside 
and  seated  in  the  luxurious  depths  of  the  wait- 
ing limousine.  More  bewildered,  she  went 
through  the  maze  of  a  few  days  as  one  who 
walked  in  a  mist,  only  here  and  there  a  distinct 
impression  really  registering  itself  upon  her 
brain — the  velvet  feel  of  Minnie's  plump,  cig- 
arette-stained fingers  as  they  wrought  tactful 
changes  about  her  person,  the  blase  drone  of 
her  voice,  the  soft-footed  unnecessary  servants, 
the  strangeness  of  the  viands,  the  heaviness  of 
the  scents,  the  Babylonian  lavishness  on  every 
hand — these  and  in  strange  juxtaposition,  the 
tired  young  man  who  had  been  the  gay  young 
man,  and  who  tried  so  hard  and  so  pathetically 
every  day  of  his  life  to  spell  luxury  with  the 
[318] 


THE    MOUNT    OF    VISION 

futile  letters  that  were  meant  only  for  the 
humbler  word  comfort. 

Elizabeth  Anne  sat  up  and  opened  her  eyes. 
How  many  times  in  these  teeming  haunts  was 
the  little  tragedy  of  Minnie's  home-making 
repeated?  Was  it  a  little  tragedy? 

Alone — in  the  monotony  of  her  way  home — 
the  question  throbbed  in  her  mind  every  mile 
of  the  way,  till  the  familiar  fields  flew  by,  and 
the  tops  of  the  Prairie  houses  swept  in  sight. 
How  good  the  air  was,  and  how  refreshing! 
Honest  air  she  had  called  it  almost  in  the 
reaction  of  her  feeling. 

And  the  long,  white,  dusty  Prairie  road  to 
the  outskirts — how  serene  it  looked  in  the 
evening  light,  and  how  inviting. 

The  home  folks  would  be  at  supper,  she 
knew,  the  lamplight  streaming  whitely  into 
the  dusk  from  the  kitchen  doorway,  down  the 
pebbled  path  with  its  pink-lined  borders. 

Had  they  missed  her?  It  seemed  suddenly 
a  very  long  time  that  she  had  been  away.  She 
felt  older,  some  way,  with  her  one  glimpse  of 
a  great  city — and  wiser.  Ahead  of  her  a  few 
paces  bobbed  the  active,  wiry  figure  of  little, 

[319] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

old  Aunt  Sarah  tugging  a  pail  of  water  from 
the  woodlot  spring — faithful,  little  old  Aunt 
Sarah,  whose  untiring  back  bore  so  many  of 
their  burdens.  Unconsciously  she  fell  into  the 
same  brisk  business-like  pace. 

How  gladly  now,  she  would  sit  at  her  feet 
and  learn. 

The  lamplight  streamed  forth  in  increasing 
radiance.  In  its  brightness  she  could  see  Rob- 
ert with  his  first  pay-envelope  in  his  hands, 
a  new  manly  swing  to  his  shoulders,  at 
which  Caroline  smiled  and  David  looked  up 
proudly. 

No,  their  "need  of  her,  of  which  in  her  self- 
obsession  she  had  fondly  dreamed,  was  not  so 
urgent  as  she  had  imagined.  Clearly  other 
strong  young  arms  would  help  to  forge  the 
way.  Clearly  the  way  itself,  hope-lighted,  was 
only  brightening  with  the  years. 

But  in  all  this  was  no  reason  for  stopping 
short  of  a  goal.  Elizabeth  Anne,  humbled  but 
persistent,  squared  her  jaw,  and  in  course  of 
time,  set  upon  her  Giant  afresh,  now  all  but 
burying  her  weapons  in  verbiage,  and  covering 
many  sheets.  What  a  pity  one  might  not  label 

[320] 


THE    MOUNT    OF    VISION 

one's  efforts:  "This  is  my  first-born,  my  heart's 
blood,  the  biggest  hope  today  that  the  world 
holds  for  me!" 

The  three  commonplace  lines  she  had  com- 
posed to  accompany  the  written  pages  seemed 
so  tame  in  comparison  she  tore  the  paper 
into  shreds,  and  stood  for  a  moment  listening 
at  the  stair- door  to  a  murmur  of  voices  from 
below. 

"She  has  gone  back  to  it,"  said  Caroline, 
softly,  as  one  enraptured.  "I  knew  she  would ! 
Oh,  I  have  hoped  so,  prayed  so,  ever  since  she 
was  born,  that  she  might  be — uncommon!" 

"But  I  tell  you  I  don't  believe  in  it,"  de- 
murred Aunt  Sarah,  giving  the  stair-door  a 
shove  with  her  foot.  "If  you  are  uncommon, 
well  an'  good.  An'  even  then  Nature  makes 
you  pay  up  for  it,  an'  dear,  too." 

The  listener  lifted  her  head  and  held  out  her 
arms.  She  would  pay,  she  would  pay!  What 
was  the  dream  not  worth? 

Thus  she  bargained,  not  knowing  that  just 
around  the  corner  there  was  waiting  for  her 
a  reality — a  reality  that  was  to  be  sweeter  and 
more  lasting  than  any  dream. 

[821] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

For  it  was  at  this  time,  quite  silently  and 
all  unheralded,  that  the  Man  came  into  her 
life — the  Big  Man,  as  she  began  to  think  of 
him  from  the  first,  for  he  was  big-chested,  big- 
fisted,  big-hearted,  deserving  of  his  title  in 
every  goodly  inch  of  him. 

The  Prairie  bestirred  itself  and  took  notice. 
Then  it  remembered  the  Red-Headed  Boy 
(there  were  others,  but  none  who  could  ap- 
proach the  shade  in  violence)  and  held  out  its 
hand  with  a  welcome  there  could  be  no  mis- 
taking. 

Elizabeth  Anne  envied  it  its  frank  cama- 
raderie. For  herself  she  found  something  con- 
fusing in  the  eyes  of  the  returned  wanderer, 
and  was  at  the  most  elaborate  pains  in  each  of 
their  frequent  meetings  that  he  should  not  dis- 
cover the  fact. 

She  hoped,  she  said  firmly  to  herself — and 
she  so  nearly  believed  what  she  said  that  she 
repeated  it  primly,  sometime  later,  in  his  pres- 
ence, in  the  shadow  of  the  honeysuckle  vines 
on  the  porch — that  their  old-time  relations 
might  continue  without  a  difference. 

It  sounded  well,  and  he  had  dropped  her 
[322] 


THE    MOUNT    OF    VISION 

hand  and  bowed  his  head  and  seemed  to  ac- 
quiesce, and  then — ah,  was  it  the  witchery  of 
the  August  moon,  or  the  faint,  sweet  smell  of 
the  garden  pinks,  or  the  sighing  of  the  unweary 
sentinels  that  pointed  forever  heavenward — 
in  some  way  neither  could  have  told,  the  prim 
little  course  had  gone  all  awry,  and  his  lips 
had  found  hers  in  the  warm  dusk,  and  his 
arms  had  claimed  her,  and —  "John,"  said  a 
small,  strangely  changed,  submissive  voice  in 
his  ear,  "I  never  knew  that  love  was  like  this." 

Simple  Elizabeth  Anne,  whose  genius  like 
the  primal,  God-given  genius  of  all  her  kind, 
lay  only  in  loving  and  in  all  that  love  entails ! 

The  white  moon  rose  higher,  the  sounds  of 
day  died  out,  the  social  after-supper  hour  in 
Cull  Prairie  was  in  full  sway.  In  the  frayed, 
swaying  hammock  on  the  porch  adjoining, 
Belle  O'Hara  (now  a  competent  forewoman 
in  the  factory)  fondled  a  white  kitten,  and 
crooned  contentedly. 

Further  down,  at  the  gate,  Maggie  and  a 
little  company  of  calico-sunbonneted  women 
joined  in  their  nightly  confab,  the  sound  of 
their  voices  rising  with  their  growing  interest. 

[823] 


THE    GENIUS    OF    ELIZABETH    ANNE 

Could  it  be? — yes,  the  magic  of  the  night  had 
spread — they  were  talking  about  weddings. 

"It's  been  quite  a  spell  since  I  seen  a  wed- 
din',''  announced  Grandma  Prouty,  as  usual  in 
her  commanding  point  at  the  center  of  the 
group;  "I  reckon  th'  las'  was  when  ol'  Anse 
Bowers  tuk  Clarissy  Kail  t'  be  his  second  wum- 
man,  an'  then  I  couldn't  noways  relish  it,  her 
bein'  sixteen  an'  him  huggin'  sixty  like  a  sweet- 
heart. Beats  all,  how  a  body  will  begretch 
them  ol'  hawks  their  young  chickens !  I  hain't 
denyin'  I  set  a  good  bit  o'  store  on  weddin's. 
Barrin'  th'  spice  of  'em,  I  don't  know  o'  nuthin', 
neither,  thet  puts  me  more  in  mind  of  a 
fun'ral." 

"A  weddin'  's  got  any  thin'  else  I  ever  seen 
beat  seven  diffrunt  ways,"  coughingly  rejoined 
white-faced  Miss  Mittie,  with  one  hand  for 
support  on  the  gate  post.  "I  only  wish  I  could 
'a'  taken  Joy's  oldes'  t'  'a'  seen  Clarissy  in  them 
handsome  lace  bride  clo'es  she'd  got,  th'  takin' 
little  thing  bein'  allus  s'  set  on  fixin'  up  that 
china  doll  o'  her'n  fer  a  bride." 

Elizabeth  Anne,  smiling,  but  misty-eyed, 
quietly  exchanged  looks  with  the  Big  Man  at 

[324] 


THE    MOUNT    OF    VISION 

her  side,  feeling  suddenly  how  much  more  they 
had  in  common  than  the  mere  meeting  place  of 
years.  Would  the  bond  be  knit  closer  and 
closer  with  the  speeding  of  their  days? 

Hopefully  her  hand  slipped  into  his  with  the 
thought  query,  and  answeringly  his  own  re- 
ceived it — the  answer  quite  to  her  satisfaction 
and  demanding  no  words. 

Caroline,  coming  softly  up  the  path  a  few 
moments  later,  looked  in  upon  them  unob- 
served, and  stole  back  as  she  had  done  in  the 
old  days  in  Elizabeth  Anne's  moments  of  in- 
spiration. What  a  changing  world  it  was  to 
be  sure! 

A  letter  she  had  brought  with  her  from  the 
post-office  slipped  absently  into  her  apron 
pocket.  It  was  addressed  to  Elizabeth  Anne 
Langdon  and  bore  above  a  firm  name  that  had 
set  her  fingers  trembling  with  impatience  at  her 
first  glimpse  at  it.  Did  it  hold  in  the  dignity 
of  its  literary  wrapping  everything  or  nothing? 

It  mattered  not,  now,  either  way.  It  could 
wait  unimportantly  in  its  place.  Far,  far 
above  it,  the  world-old  beaten  way  again  was 
calling,  calling.  Who,  better  than  she,  knew 

[325] 


THE   GENIUS    OF   ELIZABETH   ANNE 

the  level  plains  of  its  mild  drudgery,  its  drear 
morasses,  and  long,  dark  valleys  of  doubt  and 
pain — yes,  and  the  heights,  the  ecstatic  heights, 
the  love  heights  where  cooing  voices  soothed 
one's  ear,  and  clinging,  helpless  arms  entwined 
one's  neck. 

Her  hands  were  folded,  but  she  had  for- 
gotten her  prayer,  and  she  lifted  her  face  in- 
stead and  smiled.  For  in  a  single  revealing 
flash,  her  woman's  heart  had  told  her  that 
Elizabeth  Anne  had  chosen  the  better  part. 


THE  END 


[326] 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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